Cockeyed Optimist
by Morgan Locklear
Summary: Roses are red. Violets are blue. That's what they tell me because I'm blind.
1. Chapter 1: The Road Cone

**Disclaimer: **

**The characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**Their experiences are mine to share.**

* * *

><p><strong>Episode One:<strong>

My name is Edward and I am legally blind. This means that the world looks like a watercolor painting to me. It's very bright and beautiful but there aren't a lot of details, even up close.

As I share my adventures with you I will be visiting many points in my life, from early childhood to late parenthood. I will reveal all my dirty secrets, clever tricks and lucky shots and through it all I hope to present a message of perseverance, peace and passion for heart and humor.

I will get to stories about growing up a little later on (there is one about me getting into the wrong car at a rest stop that is priceless) but today I will write about:

**The Road Cone**

College is difficult when you're legally blind. Classes are impossible to find, everything in the food court looks like macaroni and cheese and the community TV is way up in the corner of the room bolted to the ceiling.

I usually sat in the front row of class so I could see everything the instructor was doing which made me a Poindexter_,_ I know_, _but I was there to learn. One day while reading along in my text book, a professor accused me of sleeping. To him it looked like I was passed out in an open book but that's just how close I had to get to read.

I informed him of his honest mistake with a rehearsed joke designed to make him feel better and release tension but he was a bit defensive and responded to my joke with a very sardonic, "This isn't the amateur hour."

To which I retorted with an admittedly sarcastic and characteristic, "You coulda fooled me."

He snorted my invitation to leave and I sat waaaaaay in the back after that.

It should be noted that I'm not normally antagonistic, but I am proud. And quick-witted (and proud of being quick-witted) Sometimes it's a combative combination.

I attended Portland State University with my high school sweetheart, Bella. We had separate dorm rooms on campus to keep our parents happy but we spent fifty percent of our college days undressed. We made love under an open window on the seventh floor of the Ondine building every night. The moonlight shared caresses and the city sang to us from almost a hundred feet down.

Bella was very patient with me, even when I had to call her into my kitchenette to check if the taco meat was brown enough to season and serve. Or to tell me if there were any baby cockroaches in the shower before I stepped in.

(Cockroaches are a way of life on campus. It doesn't matter how clean you are when you share a building with seven hundred other people. Freshman year, I shared my kitchen and bathroom with a guy so sloppy that he was practically a cartoon character cliche along the likes of Pigpen. My neighbor didn't have a cloud of dust around him, just a God awful stench. As a matter of fact, I think he was the one attracting all the roaches.)

Anyway, Bella taught me which busses would take me downtown so I could get around on my own. The Number 8 turned out to be my go to line. I would take it down 6th Avenue to the Pioneer Place shopping center that rose above and delved below the city streets. There I would either take the zig-zag escalators up to the music store or eat at the subterranean Steak Escape next to a fountain that was as pale green as Lake Louise.

This next part really has nothing to do with the road cone story and strictly speaking wasn't a byproduct of my poor vision, but I have already gotten off track so here goes:

One day, I was coming down from the Musicland store where I had purchased a copy of _Throwing Copper_, the sophomore album from the band Live. It turned out to be great CD but had a cover so unattractive that everyone I showed it to that day said, "Damn! That is one butt ugly album cover!"

On a side note, (to my side note) that album took five singles and exactly one year to reach Number One, and _Lightning Crashes_, the song that finally made it happen for them, is still the only top 40 single with the word placenta in it.

Moving on...

As I was riding the escalator down to the food court and pondering what music could be within such an unfortunate package, (although I was a big fan of their debut album and was expecting something solid) my shoelace (still tied) got caught in the metal teeth of the escalator. I pulled my leg up hard but the lace neither broke nor broke free. I bent down to investigate further but I over-balanced and fell forward.

I had only a few steps left before I would seemingly be squished like Dr. Doom in _Who Framed Roger Rabbit _so I wiggled like a fish on a hook until I broke free.

Now I can neither confirm nor deny any vocal utterances, yelps or outright screams before I managed to stand up in time to step off the escalator as if nothing had happened, but I can tell you that I was carrying my shoe with two more rides on the meandering stairs before I could reach a place to sit and evaluate my exit strategy.

Do you know how sometimes the hand rails on escalators are jumpy and jerky and move at a different speed than the steps?

Well...

I had my shoe resting on the handrail and my hand was on top of the shoe when the spastic rail lurched. My shoe dropped down through the very open floor plan two and a half stories into the fountain in the food court on the bottom floor.

The splash was tremendous. I watched in horror as my shoe (did I mention that it was a high top? Yeah, it was a big meteorite) tumbled through the air and even I saw the starburst of water that blossomed from the point of impact.

All over the nearby diners.

The rest of the ride down was long but eventless. When I finally reached Ground Zero I was greeted, rather coolly, by a security officer. He was under the impression that I was a prankster and had done the _dive de la sole_ on purpose. I explained just a few of the reasons why that made no sense. (Least of which being the fact that one of my waterlogged shoes was still in his hand.) He accepted my story with an 'it figures' look on his face.

My high top was returned and I was offered an escort to the nearest shoe outlet...or exit...my choice.

In college, one rarely has the kind of disposable income necessary to purchase things like shoes (not when Live had a new album out) so I did the only thing I could.

I put on my soggy shoe and listened to the step-squish step-squish combine with the crunching leaves as I walked up the park blocks to campus. I didn't want to take the bus.

Okay, back to the road cone story...

The Ondine building had fifteen floors and a Resident Assistant (RA) in charge of three at a time. I was assigned to floors 6, 7 and 8. I went on nightly rounds, worked a few hours at the front desk every week and hosted activities once or twice a month. Mostly, I was a relationship counselor, a locksmith, a noise cop and the first friend for a lot nervous freshmen.

I was the perfect person to show scared girls with stuffed animals still perched on their beds or tough guys with tattoos and wet eyes that anyone can fit in.

I made friends pretty fast and among the best of them were the other RAs. We commiserated with and supported one another in our own special room furnished with bean bag chairs and a ping pong table. We'd listen to Oingo Boingo (_Boingo Alive_) and lose a few balls to the hungry 12th floor window on afternoons with light classes.

On days when we could get out of the needy building, we would go to the movies together and it was on one such day that I misspoke after being deceived by my eyes.

Rose was older than Bella and I. She was the housekeeping supervisor for all dozen apartment buildings on campus and lived in the Ondine with her husband, Emmett, and their two children. She decided to go the movie with us and ran up to her 2nd floor apartment to get a jacket for our outing to see _Fargo_.

When she came back down, I could see through the cement slat steps that she had chosen a bright orange slicker.

Well, I couldn't let her get away with such a hilarious choice in attire so I ran up the first half of the flight to meet her on the landing laughing and shouting, "Oh my God! You look like a road cone!"

"Excuse me?"

It wasn't Rose.

Oh shit. It was not Rose.

It was a guy.

A big guy. And his mustache twitched.

Bella later told me that when I took off running up the stairs, she assumed that I was just going to run past him and pester Rose at her door. By the time I stopped in front of him it was too late for her to stop me.

I did the only thing I could, I ran.

As I passed Bella, she was doubled over in hysterics. She wasn't afraid to laugh at me when the situation was funny and as long as I wasn't going to get hurt. In the case of the road cone guy, I was pretty far away and trucking. I can run really fast, it's usually not safe.

I stopped (hid) at the bus stop until the rest of my friends (still giggling) showed up.

Now, when I go to the movies I have to sit in the fifth or sixth row, but Bella always said it was fine and she never complained. I always felt bad…so bad that I gave her hand massages as we watched films.

I like to read the trivia questions on the screen before the previews show but I can only make out a few letters in each word. Human brains like to fill in the gaps. It's why we see pictures in clouds and why I can read crazy ass sentences as if they were up on screen twenty inches high.

Sentences like:

"What pretzel winnebago mouse burned him on socks fart sorting hats?"

"_What Denzel Washington movie earned him an Oscar for best supporting actor?_

Now that I think of it, I guess the road cone really wasn't the biggest point of this episode but I like the title so I guess I'll keep it.

Until next time...

Edward

P.S. Denzel won the Oscar for his role in _Glory._

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><p><strong>NOTES:<strong>

**First of all, allow me to address Brutte Parole readers expecting an update today. My vacation was "extended" by a family emergency and although things are better now, it may take at least another week to get that story back on track. In the meantime, I offer this and future epodes of "Cockeyed Optimist" as a literary truffle.**

**I would also like to welcome anyone who may have found me through the blurry world of Blindward. Welcome to you one and all.**

**This is the first of what will be a series of semi-autobiographical one shots. Not that I'm running out of ideas or anything but my wife (and beta) observed that we had a lot of funny stories about the trouble my poor eyesight has gotten me into. Over the last year, as I've gotten to know people in the Fandom, I have had many questions concerning the way I see the world and I thought that using Edward and Bella would be a fun way to remember the good times and tell a romantic story.**

**I am happy to report that I have also written a steamy Bonnie and Clyde-esque one shot for Southern Fan Fiction Review entitled "Unlawful B & E". It will post on the blog on Tuesday, June 7th. I have provided a link to the blog on my author's page for your convenience.**

**I would like to acknowledge and sincerely thank my wife, Jennifer (aka RandomCran), for continuing to beta my musings while nursing a budding but brilliant work of her own; "Restless" is a gripping and authentic story that has already earned my profound admiration. (I have also included a link to her story on my authors's page for your convenience.)**

**Finally, I would like to thank Ishouldnotbehere for her diligent read-throughs. Jennifer and I feel lucky to have her as part of the team.**

**MOG**


	2. Chapter 2: The Air Show

**Disclaimer: **

**The characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**Their experiences are mine to share.**

* * *

><p><strong>Episode Two:<strong>

My name is Edward and I am legally blind. This means that I can see just well enough to get myself into trouble.

As I share my adventures with you I will be revisiting many points in my life, from toddlerhood to teetering old man. I will reveal all my smart bets, lucky guesses and near misses and through it all I hope to relay the message of self-confidence, self-control and self-reliance.

I will get to more college stories later on (there is one about riding Big Wheels down a ten story spiral parking garage ramp that is pretty wild), but today I will write about:

**The Air Show**

I wear glasses so thick that I should be able to see the future. The spectacles made me a target for bullies, but I could usually talk them out of picking on me by offering to let them try the massive things on and jump off a chair. (I hear it's quite the rush because it looks like one is jumping about nine feet down.)

With my glasses on, I have 20/200 vision. This means that I gather about one-tenth the information as someone with perfect vision would. Now, I know it sounds bad but you might be surprised at what one can accomplish without seeing the details.

Then again, it should come as no surprise that there is a lot of truth hidden in the details.

I remember one incident where that was definitely the case. It was 1989 and I was at a Presbyterian church that was converted every Saturday night into a teen night club. Bella was with me and I know we had been going out for at least six months by then because she had enacted a liberal touching policy.

She was wearing a red sweater and I was pleased to have such a bright target to zero in on whenever we were separated by the inevitable bathroom break or a game of Blackjack. (Oh yes, they had a full on Monte Carlo game room set up in the church each and every Saturday. Poker chips bought prizes for the kids at the end of the night.)

I spotted her curls in her banana clip and hugged her from behind.

(Is it just me? Or is _Geordi La Forge_ 's visor ((From Star Trek Next Generation)) made from a banana clip?)

So there I was, hugging her from behind, and I must point out that it was a familiar although not lewd hug. I didn't grind my crotch up into her acid washed jeans or anything like that. (Although I may have detected some incidental under the boob contact on my arm as it wrapped around her belly.)

As you may have already guessed, the girl was not my Bella and I can only say that I was very lucky that she found the shock on my face humorous enough to forgive the confusion. In my defense, her color and style of hair, her short height and even her Keds were the same as my Bella's.

The important detail I missed that would have tipped me off was in what she was doing, and not what she was wearing. She was dancing with another guy.

He was cool too. Thank God!

Overall, memorizing one's wardrobe was a tool I relied on to get me through any situation, especially in the eighties. (Hell, the eighties were so flamboyant that it was not necessarily a foregone conclusion that Boy George was gay at the time.)

I subconsciously catalogued dozens of peoples' wardrobes in order to recognize them quicker. Now if you are calling shenanigans on the fact that I am analyzing something that I just described as _sub_conscious, I submit that the phenomenon became apparent every year after Christmas when everyone wore new outfits and I couldn't find anybody I knew for a week.

Come to think of it, the first day of school sucked too. People changing their hair, losing weight, buying hats…shit wasn't fair.

But it was my lot in life and I learned to adapt.

Pick up enough gray dog turds, and you become disinterested in starting a rock collection.

Try to get a drink out of enough tall silver public ash trays, and you suddenly aren't very thirsty when visiting the State Capitol building. (admittedly, smoking laws have made this observation moot, but nonetheless useful as an example for today's purposes.)

I still had not learned the art of detail hunting when I got a chance to watch the performers in an air show practice over the Pacific Ocean. The jets were lining up for their stunts several miles away.

My whole family was gathered at the big picture window in our living room, and because the planes were so far away, I was loaned my grandpa's huge binoculars to look through.

It was spectacular! I swear I could see one of the planes doing barrel rolls.

Except that I was looking the wrong way.

While my family was looking in one direction and enjoying the skillful aerial antics, I was looking in the opposite direction. It was several minutes before anyone noticed.

"What are you looking at?" My sister asked the question as she reached up and flicked the speck on the window that my lenses had trained on. "The planes are over here."

She grabbed the binocular strap and guided my gaze to a much livelier target for my interest.

I watched as three specks danced together, and when they dipped below the tree line near the house, my sister retrained my scopes to the emerging aviators.

I rather liked being in a plane as a kid. My family usually let me have the window seat but that always seemed like buying the deaf guy a boom box, so I usually gave it up to a more deserving sibling.

I liked the feeling of being inside the plane, the express elevator feeling, and the sheer speed of air travel. Plus, I always got to board first.

When I was able to make something out from the milk jug sized windows, it was the aqua jewels that peppered Southern California (swimming pools) or a blanket of billowy clouds that convinced me an engine failure would result in a soft landing.

I'm paranoid about engine failures. We are all flying around in forty-year old machines and I have three friends who have piece of crap cars half as old that can't get across town without shimmying harder than Shakira.

Some may think that my poor eyesight might make it easier to forget the potential danger, (Lord knows it works when I water-ski) but I am cursed with an active imagination coupled with an artist's attention to detail. Fortunately, I am also easily distracted.

Airplane bathrooms suck.

They have buttons with writing next to them but not enough room to bend down to read. They have a toilet that makes a noise like a hungry sea cave and they have more mirrored surfaces than the playboy mansion.

Mirrors confuse me. In that respect, I'm not much different from a parakeet.

I do use mirrors, but only to make sure that my hair isn't sticking up like a post rant Charlie Sheen and call it good. After that, mirrors are only good for making everything look twice as far away and I don't need that shit.

Bars and pubs have a lot of mirrors, and I have walked into my fair share, spilling my drink in the process. It sucks, but if I was lucky, the music was usually loud enough that no one heard the ruckus and only the people looking directly at me saw the buffoonery.

Also, if the music was loud, I couldn't hear said people laughing their asses off.

Mirrors behind the bar are okay. They pose no danger but they still make it hard for me to see where the bartender is.

I was at a bar in Boise that had a huge mirror. The bar itself was shaped like a horseshoe, with pool tables at one end and the juke box at the other.

I was shooting a game of nine ball with some buddies and listening to some god awful music one night when my eyesight got me into trouble once again. I am not great at pool, but better than most beginners, so my friends were happy to let me participate.

I'm not much of a drinker and a lightweight besides, so after my third Coors Light I went over to the juke box with a few quarters. I was finally going to put some good music into the room, a statement I made loudly as I dropped coins into the squatty machine.

I stood there pushing buttons and growing frustrated that I was harassed by such sludge in my ears. I was mocking the limp vocals and clumsy rhythm as I searched for more appropriate music by the likes of Jimmy Buffet and The Steve Miller Band, when I was tapped on the shoulder by someone. He introduced himself as one of the band members and pointed out the rest of his group onstage. They had been playing since before I had arrived at the bar and they had been listening to my booze fueled critique of their musical ability the entire time.

I responded with the appropriate amount of chagrin, but you just can't take back a statement like "It sounds like a cat being beaten with a sack of broken car stereos!"

Unfortunately, Bella wasn't with me and my other friends are not the type to come to my rescue when something like this happens. Instead, they opt to quietly take out their cell phones and start recording. That particular night, they filmed me being thrown out the back door of a bar by three guys and a girl drummer (totally sexy by the way).

They call that footage The Air Show.

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><p><strong>NOTES:<strong>

**Hello again and thank you for reading my second installment of Cockeyed Optimist.**

**The third installment has already been written and was released earlier this week as part of the Fandom For Sexual Assualt Awareness fundraiser. I will post it to this site sometime in August.**

**Much thanks to RandomCran and Ishouldnotbehere for their beta work.**

**For those of you reading Brutte Parole, there will be update on Saturday, July 8. Thank you for your continued patience and encouragement.**

**MOG**


	3. Chapter 3: The Show Must Go On

**Disclaimer:**

**The characters of Twilight belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**Their experiences are mine to share.**

* * *

><p><strong>Episode Three:<strong>

Hello, my name is Edward Cullen and I'm legally blind. This means that I see the world through what might look to you like a misty shower door. The ones they use on TV shows to film naked people without showing any of the naughty bits. Ah, such is my life; forever denied free peeks at the naughty bits.

As I share my adventures with you, we will visit many points in my life; from infancy to infamy. I will reveal my biggest stumbles, best stories and boldest strides and through it all I hope to present a message of tolerance, triumph, and truthiness. (My auto correct accepted truthiness as a perfectly acceptable word. Stephen Colbert has made his immortal mark.)

I will get to stories about my surgery-ridden early childhood later on, (I have a doozy that involves me pulling over fourteen inches or surgical packing out of my nose, seriously, I thought I was unwinding my brain!) but for today I will write:

**The Show Must Go On**

My first memory of theatre was trying out for the role of Winthrop in a Vancouver, WA production of _The Music Man_. I had been practicing the "Garry, Indiana" song but was panic stricken and worried that I would forget the complicated words. My mother took me out of the auditorium with the mustard yellow curtain and told me that I could just sing "The Wells Fargo Wagon" song instead.

I was relieved but I knew, even at the age of five, that my audition would not be as strong. I knew that I would not get the part just because I already had the lisp and could belt out the simplest song in the score.

I can still smell the damp brick hallway and hear the sound of some other Winthrop wanna-be squeaking his way through "76 Trombones" as my sobs teased me with their evil echoes.

I was looking into my mother's close-up care filled face, complete with 1977 Anglo-Afro. It was more than a popular hairdo; it was a beacon to a bespectacled boy. Whenever I lost track of her in department stores, I looked for a tall dirty cotton swab in a polka-dot dress and grabbed its hand.

My mother's name is Esme and she cared for my sister, Alice, and I with copious love and a fair disposition. She never pushed us into anything, and in the case of that afternoon gave me the out I desperately needed. (While discussing the matter recently, she informed me that I was a bit on the young side for the sizable role.)

I didn't get the part and I never forgot it.

Flash forward six years, and I had landed roles in _The Sound of Music, Oliver, Music Man, The Snow Queen _and, most notably, as Snoopy in _You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown._

I performed all of those parts without my extremely customized glasses, mostly because it didn't fit the look of the character, but partly because they reflected bright stage light into the audience. (It looked like twin searchlights scanning the crowd for fugitives).

There was seldom any concern that I would fall off the stage; it was well lit, and when it wasn't, I had my escorts.

Side stage was another story. There is a myriad of things on which to hurt oneself in the wings. Usually, someone was assigned to lead me by the hand to a safe location. Girls were typically chosen for this task, thus beginning my affinity for the fairer sex.

Those girls were always so genuine and sweet and I never felt like a simpleton in their company. Strangely enough, as I landed bigger roles the genuine interest from the ladies and volunteers seeking the job to escort me backstage increased.

Some other audition memories come to me; one was for the role of Kurt in _The Sound of Music_. I should point out that I was a premature birth and as a result, I looked like I was about seven years old until I was in high school. Then I looked as old as twelve...yippee.

This was 1982, which would have made me ten. My slight frame made my lighthouse lenses look even more conspicuous, but I had the seasoned confidence of someone who had listened to the Alvin and the Chipmunks version of "The Gambler" a thousand times.

I walked out on the skinny wooden stage of a converted school and belted out that Kenny Rogers tune with all my might. Unbeknownst to me, the director was positioned several rows of orange metal chairs away and he began to laugh. He was taken off guard by my sincere performance of a decidedly mature song and as I really got rolling, so did he.

Like most people, he assumed that my thick glasses provided me with enough clarity to see beyond fifteen feet. He therefore turned completely around and faced the smattering of parents and production teem members with his hand over his mouth.

I kept singing, and he let me. Eventually, he even grew comfortable with my presence and turned around to stroke his chin appreciatively (so I was later told by my mother, who was the show's choreographer and knew the director's reaction for what it was).

As I was sailing out of the third verse, (complete with a lyric change wherein the word cigarette was replaced with twinkie) and swelled up into the final chorus, I added the echoes and back-ups, "When to hold em!"

The director immediately whirled back around with both hands clamped to his eyes, now wet with joy. He later confessed that he didn't know how he was going to explain turning his back, but assumed that anything would be better than having the director laugh during a child's audition.

I got the part and he was just sorry it wasn't more of a solo role, but he arranged a nice little third harmony for me to take with my sister, Greta, as we sang about raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

Decades later, when I auditioned for the part of Boris Renfield in a musical version of _Dracula _(it was not as bad as it sounds) I was about thirty years old and went on a very wide and dark stage without wearing my glasses because I knew that my astigmatism would be an interesting characteristic of the notoriously loony role as Dracula's sidekick.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find my place in the script and I missed my one and only line.

When the woman directing laughed it off, I was grateful for another shot at the scene, but I missed my one line again so I spent the rest of the scene sniffing everybody and maniacally smiling into the dark auditorium.

I got the part, and yes it was because my eyes wiggle around like circus balloons.

Despite precautions, I have been injured onstage - once quite seriously. It was during a production of _Brighton Beach Memoirs_ by Neil Simon. I played the part of Eugene Morris Jerome, a boy living in New York who desperately wanted to play baseball for the Yankees. He observed each night that a lot of Italians played for the Yankees but "...my mother makes spaghetti with ketchup, what chance do I have?"

The production was part of a summer stock series wherein three different plays shared the same basic set and actors. I acted in Brighton Beach, was the stage manager for _How the Other Half Loves_, and did odds and ends for _Wait Until Dark_.

The set was a two story house. The living room and dining room were downstairs and the two bedrooms were above them. It looked rather like a doll house. A big, ugly doll house.

One evening, I was quite sick. This is inevitable during months of production, as we spent hours and hours preparing for a show with little more than pop rocks and Pepsi to fuel us.

Like the saying goes, the show must go on and besides I don't mind performing when I'm sick as long as I don't have to sing. I usually forget my illness when onstage and feel pretty good for a couple of hours.

On that particular night, however, the sickness also made me very emotional. In one scene where I was supposed to weep a bit, I sobbed with aplomb and since I wore my glasses for the role they filled up with water. (My lenses are concave on the inside as well as being thick enough to start forest fires. The glasses touched my cheek, trapping tears within.)

When the scene was over, I took off my specs and dumped an ounce of salty water on the stage, much to the delight of the audience gathered that night. It was quite the gag and my director laughed harder than anybody.

I had a good performance that night, and upon delivering the last line of the show into the bright and silent room the lights went out and the cheers went up. It was very disorienting and I accidentally stepped off the second floor landing where my bedroom was located.

Before I describe my fall and subsequent injury, it should be noted that the last line delivered was a reference to a postcard of a naked woman that my stage brother, Stan, had just given to me. "I have seen the golden palace of the Himalayas," I chimed each night.

When I stepped out into space, the applause masked the noise of me hitting, and breaking, the dining room table. Fortunately, it had been cleared of dishes and the real boiled cabbage we prepared each night.

I had the wind knocked out of me, but I knew that the lights would pop back on any second so I crawled behind the couch and lay there while one by one, the rest of my family came out to take their bows.

No one saw me there, nor did they seem to notice the splintered wooden table. As rehearsed, they gestured to the upstairs room where I should have been standing, ready to take my bow, but I was not there. Instead, I stood up from behind the couch and accepted my accolades graciously before following my startled cast mates off stage.

I explained the events that took place in the dark and was immediately taken to the hospital where it was discovered that I had broken a rib and that my illness was actually a spleen infection - something that might have gone untreated had I not plummeted from the loft.

I had just begun dating my sweetheart, Bella. Thankfully, she wasn't in the audience that evening, having seen the show the weekend before. She was, however, dutifully concerned for me and was allowed to come over to my house to put a damp cloth on my forehead. She also began reading me a Stephen King book called _It,_ an experience we both enjoyed.

An activity meant to pass the time during a few afternoons has since evolved into a tradition. Despite the hectic pace of our grown up lives, we still enjoy sharing a story together.

Although that was my biggest injury to date, I had some other close calls that could have resulted in much worse.

One day, while helping to paint the set for a production of _Man of La Mancha_, wherein I donned a fat suit and portrayed Sancho Panza, I sat on the edge of the stage and hopped off of it, not realizing that the stage crew had taken out the floor to make room for an orchestra pit.

This was seldom done, just for the big musicals, and I mistook the darkness below my feet for the black painted floor that was always there, just a short hop down.

The orchestra pit was, in fact, twelve feet deep.

I fell through the air for what felt like an eternity and landed hard on the thin rubber soles of my red Converse high tops. The sound filled the pit and spilled out like an unruly river. There was a fellow in the light booth who saw me disappear, and seemingly alarmed by the thud, casually slid the window open and chastised me for horsing around.

My feet hurt for a week, but other than that I was okay.

From that day on, I used the stairs to get off stage like I was supposed to.

Now, not every mishap has put me in danger. Once during a performance of the "Hooverville" song in the musical _Annie_, I was supposed to grab an apple out of a juggler's hands but instead I slapped it like King Kong swatting at an airplane from atop the Empire State building. The apple made a great arc across the set and landed in a small cooking pot located on the other side of the stage.

The audience thought it was a fucking miracle.

A few of them even shot to their feet in an appreciative ovation that confused most of the singers who had not seen the one in a million shot. I was one of them. Once the apple had left my hand I lost it in the lights, but the peculiar sound of it finding a cozy prison told me that something noteworthy had occurred.

There have been several such incidents in my thirty plus years as an actor and one was quite embarrassing. It was during the pick-up rehearsal for a _Monty Python_ tribute that I was directing, and in one scene I wore a grass skirt over boxers.

Well, I usually wore boxers but since I think man-ass is always good for a laugh, I went out naked under the garment that did not fully wrap around in the back. My exit was going to be memorable for the friends and family members allowed to attend the run through.

As it turned out, I had only been on stage for seconds before my tally whacker parted the green strands of plastic and aired itself out.

I, of course, was completely oblivious and continued with the scene like normal. I received tremendous encouragement from those gathered as I danced about and when I turned to leave I got the reaction I was looking for...thundering applause.

One of the other actors was waiting for his cue and looked down as I approached him.

"Your pecker is peeking out," he told me dryly.

I looked down and there it was.

It was thankfully quite warm in the theatre that night and there was no mistaking what _I _was looking at. I was mortified, of course, but not as much as my sister who was running the lights.

Alice is still in therapy.

Bella, who was by now my wife, was also in the audience that evening. She later reported receiving several congratulatory nudges, but this did little to appease my fears of being kicked off the theatre company's board of directors.

As it turned out, everyone thought it was a hoot and I have since been given several gag gifts, including a coconut bra to go with the grass skirt I immortalized that night.

My last story is not as funny as it is touching. I just wanted to warn you.

I was cast in _The Rocky Horror Show_ along with my optometrist. It is not uncommon in a small town to have outside acquaintances with most of one's fellow actors and I had actually been in several plays with the mustached baritone.

When he heard that I was playing Riff Raff sans spectacles, he took me aside and expressed his deep concern for my safety. I assured him that it was a relatively easy gig for me this time around and that he had nothing to worry about. A few days later, I was informed that I would need to climb a ladder side stage to a landing where I would pop out and sing my part of "Over at the Frankenstein Place."

It was a perilous journey along the edge of the landing, complete with stepping over a trio of sound wires and weaving through a labyrinth of discarded monitors.

The next day my optometrist showed up with a pair of contact lenses. He told me that they were good strong prescriptions and although not quite as powerful as my glasses, they would give me a lot more vision than my naked eyes.

He insisted that they were a donation to the show and requested that I not mention it to the rest of the cast and crew. I was speechless, which for me is saying a lot, and wore them every night during what became an incident free production.

I was also approached by the stage manager that night. She gave me a pen light to wear around my neck as I climbed. When I informed her that it was not likely to assist me much she announced that it wasn't for me.

"This way, if you fall, I can see it," she explained while patting me on the back.

I wore it for every performance and now it now has a place of honor among the personal treasures and stolen memorabilia I have on the walls of my garage.

It's nestled between the shells of my coconut bra.

* * *

><p><strong>NOTES:<strong>

**This installment first appeared as part of the ****Fandom For Sexual Assault Awareness event and I was honored to participate in the fundraiser.**

**Thank you to my beta, RandomCran, and to my pre-reader, Ishouldntbehere, for their editing expertise.**

**Upcoming episodes of Cockeyed Optimist include: "Who is Tennessee Ernie Ford?" (a collection of my athletic endeavors), and "Happy Together..." which is about the night I met my Bella.**

**Thanks for reading, friends.**

**MOG**


	4. Chapter 4: Who Is Tennessee Ernie Ford?

**Disclaimer: **

**The characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**Their experiences are mine to share.**

* * *

><p><strong>Episode Four:<strong>

My name is Edward and I am legally blind. This means that I see about as well as a newborn kitten; only I'm not as cute, not even when my hair is all wet and spiky. Bella would beg to disagree of course.

As I share my adventures with you, we will be visiting many points in my life; from grief to glory. I will reveal my biggest follies, biggest fish and biggest fears and through it all I hope to present a message of community and comedy. A celebration of the most precious of gifts…joy.

I will get to stories about having kids later on (there is a good one about my invitation to participate in the actual birth that will have you wondering why any doctor would offer to let the blind guy cut the cord) but today, I will write:

**Who Is Tennessee Ernie Ford?**

As you can imagine, I am not great at sports. Both times I've played baseball I've been hurt. The first was in fourth grade and when I miraculously hit a pitch straight to the ground and watched it bounce towards third base, I ran like Richard Pryor.

Unfortunately, the pitcher picked up the ball and threw me out at first. The ball hit me in the face as I passed the first baseman and blood came gushing from my nose. I remember even then being fascinated that the blood came from the nostril on the side of my face facing away from the pitcher's mound.

My nose was broken. When I got to the emergency room, the doctor grabbed it and started moving it around like he was playing Megamania on Atari.

"Just tell me when it hurts," he instructed. I was pretty numb, so his manipulation of my nose went unchallenged.

When I was taken home, I sat on the floor in my grandparents' room and watched The Muppet Movie for the first time. We had recently discovered HBO lurking on Channel 99 and I particularly enjoyed Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem.

I only played baseball one other time and it was against my will. I was a Freshman in high school and my gym teacher appointed me as pitcher.

Naturally, I was not the only one who objected but he gave his orders and I lobbed balls at the white plate with more vigor than accuracy.

I walked a few...well, nine...and yet I still pitched.

My unwanted career ended when a gentle boy who had always been deservingly popular whacked a true pitch and it zipped forward and hit me in the throat.

I went down coughing and cursing at the teacher whom I suddenly had the gumption to stand up to...when I was finally able to stand up that is.

"You fool!" I croaked at him. "Now can I just run laps?"

He yelled back. "Quit using your eyesight as an excuse!"

I was surprised at the depths of his lunacy in the face of such overwhelming evidence and walked off the field with the intention of never returning to his class again.

I could learn nothing from a fool.

It was not a hard call for the principal to make. I was offered a spot in the weight training class and was later presented with an apology letter from the offending instructor.

Despite my baseball experiences, I usually enjoyed gym glass. Shortly after I graduated from high school, I was approached by my grade school PE teacher, who had armed herself with questions about my deftness as a dodgeball player.

"The balls are much bigger and travel much slower," I answered, thinking of my two "run-ins" with baseballs. Believe it or not, I have fast reflexes...if I can see something coming I can usually catch it or avoid it, depending on the appropriate course of action.

I did enjoy dodgeball and would get the bigger boys out by catching their seemingly hard throws. I would let the ball tuck into my gut and fold my arms around it. Worked every time. (I mean every time I didn't get hit in the nuts).

I liked basketball as well, and later in pick-up games at PSU I was a secret weapon for the defense against any team.

You see…basketball is mostly about sticking to your man. It was discussed that I would not be a big part of the shooting game but I could guard their best man by facing him in an unorthodox and unnerving way. He would be unable to escape my Pepe Le Pew-like advances and be stuck defending a non-factor in the offensive game plan.

To put it another way, I made it so our worst player**,** (me!) took out their best player. It was a solid strategy that gave a struggling team some wins.

That about covers baseball AND basketball except for my story about seeing the Portland Trailblazers with my dad. They were playing the Kansas City Kings, (a team that no longer exists) and my father had obtained tickets that put us on the floor and right next to the players.

My father's name is Carlisle. He's a fun loving big tipper. He seems to have a friend in every town and has driven every type of car there is to drive. He knows a lot about the fifties and his favorite movie is The Godfather Part II.

I was quite young, hardly old enough to remember the event, but I do recall that the players were impossibly tall. We watched the warm-ups while we ate caramel corn and before long the announcer asked us all to rise for the national anthem. He proclaimed proudly that it would be performed by "Tennessee" Ernie Ford and the coliseum went bananas.

People jumped to their feet and cheered like we had already won the game.

As my father tells the story, the crowd had just settled into a respectful calm when the reverence was broken by my voice, loudly asking a question.

"Whoooo is Tennessee ERNIE Ford?"

My father immediately turned to his left where the man in question with the microphone stood not twenty feet away.

There was a ripple of hushed gasps and chuckles through our section and then the man began singing in a deep baritone. I rather liked it and I loved being close enough to follow the action of the game once everyone put their hats back on and sat down.

Basketball is perfect for the visually impaired. The ball is bright orange, as big as a balloon AND is constantly being loudly bounced as it moves around the court. I could always tell whether or not shots were made by the crowd's reaction.

We lost to the Kings that night but years later I would be a Junior in high school and listening to the Trailblazers on the radio while I baked biscuits and mixed coleslaw at the local Kentucky Fried Chicken. I was following a different line-up – that of Clyde Drexler, Jerome Kersey, Terry Porter, Kevin Duckworth and my personal favorite NBA player of all time, Buck Williams. (He was the team chaplain and wore goggles).

* * *

><p>I tried golf once or twice believe it or not and as you might have guessed, the best part of that sport for me was driving the golf cart. Although I can't see well enough to operate an automobile on public roads, I am quite capable of traveling fifteen miles an hour on a marked path and Bella never even acted nervous.<p>

I love her for that and for a million other reasons. She believes in me and trusts that I would not put either of us in danger just to appear more...normal. She even let me drive her Chevy Sprint around the state park parking lot at night while we were in high school, but that's another story.

When we golfed, we were both horrible. My personal barometer for failure in the gentleman's sport rests on the number of balls lost to holes played ratio, while hers was a struggle with club control.

Ironic that she was gripping the shaft too tight while I was stuck in the bush.

One time, we were with a group of friends who drank enough to make the game competitive, and I remember being pleased with my short game. That's where I (and the girls), caught up because the tipsy guys always put too much power in their putts.

I ended up alone in the cart near the end of the nine hole scramble while the others strolled the fairway to their second or third strokes. I, as usual, hit my neon pink ball into the only body of water available, (even if that meant it was behind us) and was asked to bring the cart up to the green.

I thought I was keeping to the cart path, but apparently I had followed a gardener's tire tracks or something because I sped away with the clubs and didn't see my friends again for at least a half an hour.

I knew after a few hundred yards I was not going to end up where the pin was, but there was no place to turn around. I kept on going in hopes of finding a wide split in the path, but the dense woods seemed to only encroach further.

I finally ended up at a shack that looked old enough to have once been taller than the trees surrounding it and flipped around in a hurry to get back to the waiting group. I was zipping along and after a while began seeing things I didn't recall passing before.

When I rolled through a covered bridge, I knew that I was in trouble.

I had to wait for a place to turn around again and came to believe that I would sooner see a bear before I came upon a manicured fairway and saw the proper cart path pin striping its south side.

When I came to the spot where I had diverted the first time, it was obvious that I should have gone the other way. Who knows sometimes why I see things the way I do but over time I've learned to slow down and that's been working well.

I finally rejoined my friends, who were more worried than angry at my prolonged absence and we played the last few holes with wedges just for fun. Our balls looked like hopping fleas as one by one they bounced into the holes.

* * *

><p>You would think that volleyball would be easy for me what with the big inflatable ball and the multiple teammates, but I always seem to run into the anchor ropes that hold the net up or misjudge the speed of the incoming orb. More often than not, I ended up getting hit before I could bring my arms up in that special V move that usually just shoveled the ball up into my face.<p>

You might also think that racquetball with its small and fast moving ball would be difficult, but the contrast between the blue ball and the white walls, combined with my aptitude for geometry, makes it a fun sport that I excel in.

I have had my blunders of course, and if the racquetball court has one of those glass rear walls, I am hopelessly lost. I have hit the ball into my crotch (like John Candy did in the movie Splash) a couple of times.

Bella and I played racquetball together in high school. My sister, Alice, worked at the YMCA and let us use the courts after hours. Now that I think of it, It's a wonder we ever played at all.

I am a decent ping pong player if there's a good enough contrast against the ball. I'm no Forest Gump, but I usually win. Especially if I play against kids.

Just as in racquetball, and tennis for that matter, if you perfect a killer serve you will not have to work as hard for your victory.

Now I know that it's about as cool as saying that I'm good at ping pong, but I am also a fair bowler. I have learned that wherever your belly button points, that's where the ball will go and have consistently scored in the two hundreds since junior high.

If I don't get a strike I have to have Bella tell me which pin is the most forward so I have a fighting chance at a spare. She's a good bowler too, but doesn't have enough power in her throws to force the pins away like a shock wave. Usually they spill backwards like a gang of drunks who were all holding onto each other for support.

I like bowling shoes actually, they have style as far as I'm concerned and I have been known to trade in a ratty pair of sneakers for the sole purpose of taking home a nice colorful pair that smell like cigarette smoke and Lysol.

* * *

><p>I have been asked repeatedly not to even attempt darts.<p>

* * *

><p>I like football. I like watching it and I love to play with friends on the beach near my home. I'm not much of a quarterback, and playing receiver with that pointy ball is out of the question so usually I just tackled guys, and hoped they weren't on my team.<p>

Like basketball, football has a lot of strategy and I am drawn to the idea of coming up with battle plans to move the ball as a team.

I play football without my glasses because if those things get broken I am going to have to rob a bank to replace them. This is not a problem because we usually play shirts vs. skin games and even I can't miss a half-naked sweaty man charging me with a ball under his arm.

I am asked to carry the ball from time to time because I have speed and because it's generally unexpected. The hand off is always clean with someone like me and I run along the back of the line until I spot a gap I can squeeze through.

One time, I slipped past the defense and was all alone on the beach with eighty yards to go and feet that were already spraying sand behind them. I was cruising along like the Road Runner with the surf in my ear and the wind in my hair.

If only it hadn't been for that rock.

At least I held onto the ball and the other guys bought me garlic knots and Miller Genuine Draft that night.

Athletics are an important part of our social fabric and I have been fortunate to find a few outlets for my interest. These days I play video games and some of them are even baseball, golf and driving games.

It's safer for everyone that way.

I can scoot up pretty close to the TV, but I still can't play games that are designed as first person shooters. If I play one of those games my screen slowly turns red as some sniper plinks me.

I like MarioKart and beating friends at driving games is a savored treat that I indulge in from time to time. I race online under the name: aBLINDguyBEATyou. I never use cheat codes by the way.

My son has Guitar Hero and I tried it thinking that it would be fairly boring but wouldn't you know it...I felt like a guitar hero. When the family plays together I sing into the game mic while Christopher takes over the guitar. Bella plays drums.

The more realistic the game, the harder it is for me to play. I like the cartoony quality of Nintendo games vs. the graphic calisthenics of xbox.

But I long for the days of Atari 2600. I could play the shit out of Pitfall.

* * *

><p>You will notice that I haven't mentioned soccer at all.<p>

* * *

><p>I will dedicate an entire episode to my experiences at the Oregon School for the Blind soon enough, but there is one last sports story that I must tell and it all started with a waterski camp in Salem.<p>

I was a part time student at O.S.B. and would spend a few summer weeks each year learning everything from cooking to banking. After graduating from high school, I was asked to work as a counselor and drama instructor for the Creative Enrichment summer program.

Bella would drive down from our college apartment in Portland and visit me on weekends, and all the boys fell in love with her. It wasn't because she's gorgeous, although she is, but they saw her inner beauty in about two minutes and were drawn to her like snowflakes.

The summer I learned to waterski was the year "Don't Worry, Be Happy" came out. It played on the radio every morning we drove to the river in the state van.

I always begged the teachers to stop at the DMV to get "Student Driver" stickers to display below the Oregon State School for the Blind moniker, but they never did.

I have to say this about the waterski program…the instructors had balls AND they had their safety checks in place. First of all, we were pulled by jet boats, to eliminate the possibility of anyone accidentally getting too close to a spinning propeller.

I was impressed. Being older and having fairly good eyesight compared to most of the other students made me hyper aware of safety issues. It paved the way for my eventual employment by the state because my cautious tendencies didn't go unnoticed.

There were three boats and they each had bull horns. After some work on a boom arm that put the skier right next to the boat, students were thrown the rope and told to yell "Hit it!" when they were ready.

When you are directly behind a boat, the part of the water that the engine churns up is called the wash or the tread. It's easy to feel the choppy water even under skis. On either side of the tread is a diagonal lip of water called the wake. Students were pulled by a thirty foot rope that kept them in a nice cradle because unless you really wanted to go over the wake you would be gently guided back to the wash.

I liked being on the outside of the wake. The water was like glass and only I was the only thing cutting through it. Even the sound of the boat was muted as I sailed across the top of the slow moving Willamette River.

One day, a news crew showed up to film a feel good story and I borrowed someone's white cane and sunglasses. The crew got in the back of the boost boat and shot footage of me skiing while moving the cane back and forth over the water with one hand.

It was a riot and sure enough, it hit CBS that night. I was quoted as saying that we were still working on getting one of the dogs to stand on two slalom skis.

I was given a slalom ski shortly after jumping the wake a few times but I didn't like it. It put a lot of pressure on my lower back and I found putting one leg behind the other uncomfortable.

I stuck with two skis, and by the end of the season I was encouraged to enter the National Blind Waterski Competition being held in Orlando, Florida later that year. The instructors assured me that I qualified for the wake jumping portion of the event and my parents were happy to give me the opportunity.

Wake jumping is a timed exercise. A skier would begin in the tread and when a horn on the boat sounded they would get over the lip of one side of the wake and begin crossing back and forth as fast as possible. Two points are awarded for each time one crosses the wash and a skier has only twenty seconds to do it.

We each got four runs and the points were then added together. I crossed the wake nineteen times on my first try and then twenty times. Seventy-eight points after two attempts. My third try was a nineteen again and my last was a twenty-one. I earned one hundred sixty-two total points and set a new record for total wake jumps.

Okay, so I'm proud of it, or at least I was when I was fifteen. Now it's the story I almost forgot to tell when I was writing this episode. (Mostly because it isn't funny).

I will explain why setting a record still only earned me third place in a moment, but first let me explain how I was able to achieve a jump roughly every second.

Believe it or not, my technique begins with my parents. Carlisle, and his high school sweetheart, Esme, were both water-skiers in their youth. They even went out in their prom outfits and had their picture taken as they skimmed an Idaho lake in a tux and gown.

They took off from the dock and rode their skis up the beach when they were finished. Only a few drops got onto his rolled up pants and her pinned up dress.

My mother would tell me to gather some rope in my hand and let it go in order to get a nice jerk of speed. It worked well and I tried something else along with it; when I was in the air and reaching for the rope, I turned my body so that I would land backwards, with my skis already pointed in the direction I wanted to jump again.

When I let go of the rope, it would pull me quickly into the next jump. Sometimes, many times, I did not even touch the tread.

I averaged about one crossing a second but since I was on two skis I was penalized. Since slalom was seen as a more advanced form of skiing, those competitors were awarded three points for every wake jump.

The boy that won had a personal best of sixteen crossings in one of his time trials. The boy who was awarded second place crossed the wake less times in his four runs than I had in three.

Forgive me if I sound miffed, I assure you that I am pleased with my performance that weekend. I even got to meet ski jump great Sammy Duvall as well as the great barefoot skier, George "Banana" Blair.

I also watched a movie in the hotel on that trip that changed me. It was called The Princess Bride and I would eventually view the film no less than fifty times in the next dozen years; many of them with Bella.

Maybe this is another blind thing but I totally didn't know that the man in the black mask was Wesley until he shouted "As you wish" when Buttercup pushed him down the hill.

Why do I feel like that is the most embarrassing thing I have revealed to date?

Anyway, I had a wonderful time in Florida and on the way home I happened to find out that any of the top three finishers in the blind competition would have taken first in the sighted competition that took place on the other side of the lake that same weekend.

Ha!

* * *

><p><strong>NOTES:<strong>

**Thank you all for stopping by. I hope you're having as much fun reading these episodes as I have writing them. **

**My thanks also to RandomCran and Ishouldntbehere for their beta skills.**

**I do have an announcement related to Blindward.**

**Bronzehairedgirl620 is running in the Nike Women's Marathon this October, fundraising for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society and her goal is to raise $2900 (USD). The LLS provides assistance for people who suffer from blood diseases, as well as lab research for cures.**

**If you would like to make a donation toward her efforts, you will receive a special compilation in September. Donations will be taken until September 29th, 2011, and all gifts are tax-deductible.**

**Simply PM a copy of your donation receipt to her.**

**You can find the donation link on my author's page.**

**Compilation authors include: Sebastien Robichaud, Amethyst Jackson, KitsuShel, Silver Sniper of Night, DenverPopcorn, EdwardsBloodType, RandomCran, Merevaik, LittleClareStar, TeamCarlisleWhitlock, Bronzehairedgirl620 and myself.**

**Specifically, I will be donating an episdoe of Cockeyed Optimist entitled "Happy Together". It will be about the night I met my Bella.**

**This is a worthwhile cause and I appreciate your involvement, whether is it by making a donation or by promoting the fundraiser to others.**

**MOG**


	5. Chapter 5: Happy Together

**Disclaimer: **

**The characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**Their experiences are mine to share.**

* * *

><p><strong>Episode Five:<strong>

My name is Edward and I'm legally blind, a weird term in my opinion. I always wondered if I could be declared _illegally_ blind, you know like if I didn't pay my blind renewal fees or something. They could drum me out of the union and beat me with white canes.

As I share my adventures with you, I will visit many parts of my life; from grammar to stammer and back again. I will explore everything, from my deep psyche to my shallow tastes, and through it all I hope to present an example of character and competence, despite crippling circumstance.

I will get to stories about the various careers I've had in another episode, (there's one about my short stint as an elevator operator that's pretty…suspenseful) but today I will write about love at first sight.

**Happy Together**

I met Bella on a Friday night. The club was called Fridays and was only open on that one evening of the week. (Actually it was the local Presbyterian Church, hosting a weekly party for the high schoolers). There was dancing in the basement and faux blackjack upstairs in rooms with slanted ceilings.

Blind people always take note of slanted ceilings, especially ones that go all the way to the floor. Even so, I have left full face smudges on many a slanted ceiling while my glasses flew up and over my head.

Now that I think of it, I never saw the sanctuary of that church. I don't know what color the pews were, whether or not it had stained glass windows or if it smelled like books. That remains a mystery.

Fridays was an instant hit for the teens in the late nineteen eighties. Def Lepard and Depeche Mode had us all dancing in our acid washed jeans and I was a regular. My sister, Alice, and I ran in different circles, but Fridays attracted everyone.

Kids from many different towns, as well as the nearby Indian reservation met there and developed friendships that last to this day. I am one of them.

Bella had been there before too, many times in fact, but we never crossed paths. She even later told me about a crush she had on a boy who was dating my sister the year before. Once she had even seen me with them when we were leaving at the end of the night while she stared on longingly.

As it turned out, we had missed each other by mere inches over and over. Bella and I were even captured on film together before we met. I was asked to shoot a story for local TV and while getting an action shot in the basement she was in the background as an extra.

She was oblivious to the star in suspenders and I had not noticed the blonde with bangs that coiled in the front like Egon in Ghostbusters (the cartoon, not the movie). Harold Ramis looked normal in the movie, but the cartoon version of Egon had this sideways cyclone of blond bangs that could hold an extra wiener wrap from the cafeteria.

On that night in December of 1988, I had gotten a ride to Fridays with friends on a whim. My sister was already out and I had already assumed that I wasn't going to make it. Then a call came in from one of my buddies. He was one of those people who instantly felt protective of me. I collect one or two friends like that a year. There's a type.

These are the people with the biggest hearts in the world, combined with a sense of justice and loyalty that rivals their sense of humor. They like my wit and give me far more credit then I deserve for having just survived this far and they stick up for me at every opportunity. They also give me rides.

I often point out their humbling admiration to them and discourage carte blanche entitlements, but am usually met with self-aware people who tell me that they know exactly what they are doing and to shut up.

So I do, but I appreciate people who still give a lost puppy a home for the night, or a dead car battery a jump start, or a blind guy a lift to a teen nightclub when they were driving up there anyway.

We got there early. The DJ hadn't even played the first song and was still stretching cables. We had been upstairs losing horribly at blackjack when we heard the opening verse of "Happy Together" by The Nylons and bolted for the stairs.

(The song was first made popular in by the Turtles in 1967 but that remake, as well as, Kiss Him Goodbye gave the Nyons some legs in '88).

Anyway, that's when Bella said she first saw me that night. A wild haired, wild eyed, and wildly dressed streak of denim and pink charging down the stairs past the table she was signing in at. She noted the song that had gotten me so worked up, a largely vocal and harmonic song. She told me some time later that it made her see potential. She kept an eye on me after that.

A month prior, Bella had been cruelly dismissed by a boyfriend who wanted to get into her Guess jeans. He was booted to the curb by a savvy young woman who wasn't going to squander physical love on any loser with a pecker and a promise. He retaliated.

Meanwhile, I had been in the trappings of a young woman who would have rather caught the attention of my tall dark haired best friend, Jacob. He was the one who gave me a ride that night. He also knew about the girl I liked, Julia, and tried to divert her affections to me.

It doesn't work that way and I knew it. So I had given up on her…kind of.

It was a mutual friend, Charlotte, who decided to introduce us that night. She had already spoken to me once but soon returned with a cute girl in tow.

"This is Bella," she announced. "You two should be friends."

We locked eyes for the first time.

Bella's eyes were brown, almost black, yet somehow inviting.

My eyes were hidden behind glasses so thick that I could see the future.

Her hair was in a banana clip and her jeans had several stitches along manufactured rips. She wore a black sweatshirt with a big pink G on it. (The G was for Guess, a popular clothing label at the time).

She was cute. That wicked kind of cute with shining eyes and dimples. She was bubbly too. I was not expecting that, and it was a nice change of pace from all the perpetually unimpressed girls I had become accustomed to interacting with.

I can't remember the first song we danced to. I wish I could. Maybe it was "My Prerogative" by Bobby Brown, or it could have been damn near anything by George Michael. Maybe it was one of several Guns-n-Roses songs that made into the night's playlist.

What I do know is that we were inseparable from that first dance on. We held hands almost immediately and the electric thrill of her warm little fingers curled inside mine gave me a knight's courage and a fool's tongue.

I could tell that she was being herself. She smiled easily and shared eagerly. I jumped around the dance floor like a spider monkey and my thin pink sequined tie bounced all over my denim shirt.

We looked at each other, which was rare at that age. Even boyfriends and girlfriends seemed to look everywhere EXCEPT at each other when dancing. Not us. We couldn't keep our eyes away from one another.

Slow songs meant that we could hug.

She was a good hugger. She even pressed her legs up against mine.

I loved the way she smelled, like candles and candy.

We chatted constantly. I had been learning the harmonica and the "Sports" album by Huey Lewis and the News was a great inspiration. Bella not only know who they were, but knew that the keyboard player used a Korg synthesizer.

I was impressed.

She asked me if I knew the band _a-ha_ and I reported confidently that "The Sun Always Shines on TV", was (and is) one of the coolest pop songs ever recorded.

I had scored a home run with that answer and she let me know it, but I had not yet heard their newest tape, save for a video that was currently in the MTV rotation, and she promised to make her copy available for my perusal. It was that moment when she gave me her home phone number.

I immediately memorized it.

As the evening progressed, we danced to Eric Carman's, "Make Me Lose Control" and sang loudly during the accapella part. We entered into the prize drawing and didn't win the dirt bike or the boom box, but I do believe that Bella took home a tub of Red Vine licorice, a favorite snack of hers to this day.

She told me all about a band called Erasure and I told her all about a band called The Dead Milkmen. She confirmed that country music blows but that blues, and specifically The Blues Brothers, "Kick total ass."

We never missed a slow dance and held each other with unashamed closeness. We were both very charged for each other and it was never more evident than when we engaged in a three minute hug as we slowly spun in a circle with a disco ball and a senior's sleepy father as a chaperone.

When she whispered in my ear, I felt my face warm. When I whispered in her ear, I loved the way strands of hair that had escaped the banana clip tickled my lips.

She told me all about a hilarious movie called "Raising Arizona" and admitted that she was a big time Star Wars and Indiana Jones fan. Harrison Ford was an important factor there, and I was not about to disagree.

Harrison Ford rocks.

As if knowing that we both had a healthy respect for one Mr. George Lucas as well as the sublime Stephen Spielberg wasn't enough, Bella blew my doors off by casually mentioning her familiarity with, if not appreciation for, R.E.M.

The Green album rocks.

Her ex-boyfriend showed up later in the evening and in an attempt to intimidate Bella, came over and greeted me. I had not known him, nor had I known their history, but I was accustomed to people striking up conversations with me and having to figure out where I knew them from along the way.

He left after a brief exchange and Bella bravely shared her feelings with me in a quiet corner on the vast basement while we danced to a song that coincidently mentioned thorns.

I was appalled to hear that after breaking up with her and spreading vicious rumors, he had even been physical with her at school. In one case "accidentally" spilling an entire carton of chocolate milk on her.

My cheeks grew hot and my throat became dry as my anger grew, but she put a hand on my arm.

"None of that matters now," she told me and I instantly knew what she meant. We had found each other and everything was going to be different from then on.

We encountered him infrequently since he didn't dance, but during one slow song, ironically Chicago's "Look Away", he brought a girl out and pushed his way right next to us.

I had my face close to Bella's and put my hand up in the small gap between them, blocking her view of the idiot. It was a very obvious and insulting reaction to his presence, like holding one's nose. I spoke to Bella as yellow and red lights flashed across her eyes in regular bursts.

I'm sure he was most definitely looking our way and I might have lowered a few fingers at one point to make sure the song was properly punctuated.

I was determined to make her feel protected and when the song was over, I made sure to walk right between him and his partner. I forced him to make way for us. When he did I passed by without looking, even as my shoulder brushed his chin.

He disappeared after that.

As the night went on, we discovered that we had several friends in common and spent the last part of our evening hearing first-hand accounts or each other's most memorable social moments. We sat together on a huge window ledge where kids went to buy snacks and look over the prizes that had not been raffled away yet.

She clasped my hand and pulled it over to her lap where she covered it with her other hand. And she kept it there like a she was cupping a newborn kitten. She made sure that the back of my hand touched the jeans over her thigh and I saw fireworks.

I was still sporting a nice tan from my recent trip to Florida for the National Blind Waterski Competition and I was already feeling fine with a mullet that would have made Joe Dirt proud. But to be sitting there with her like that was one of the biggest moments of peace in my life.

The DJ played "Pump Up the Volume", an awesome song by M/A/R/R/S/, so we ran out and danced until it morphed into "Push It" by Salt -n- Pepa. We should have stayed but the music spoke to us.

"Mars needs women." We sang the line along with the song, everyone did.

Admittedly, even I was sick of "Don't Worry, Be Happy" by then but Bella and I sang along as if it were a cherished new experience.

It was.

I think we both knew that we that we were experiencing something special and it made us bold. We complimented each other frequently and hardly ever let go of each other's hands.

I don't know how she found out, but she discovered that I'm ticklish. Cripplingly ticklish, and she is not a merciful torturer.

Risk Astley begat Robert Palmer, who begat Phil Collins, who begat Billy Ocean and we danced patiently, waiting like everyone else to hear "Wild Wild West", a new song from a new group called The Escape Club. They were going to be the next INXS, (even though the KICK album was still shaking butts in late '88).

By the end of the night, I had repeated her phone number a thousand times in my head and my face hurt from all the smiling I had done.

They announce last songs at kids' dances like they announce last call at taverns and both get an equally strong reaction. Needless to say, we had fair warning when "I've Had The Time of My Life" came sauntering out of the Peavy speakers. Not one of my favorite songs, and from a stupid movie to boot, but my heart poured new meaning into the words.

Bella and I did not talk, but we hugged each other with competing tightness and when the song finally came to an end, stood alone on the dance floor holding each other while the people around us moved toward the exit or waiting friends.

"Thank you," she whispered in my ear.

I didn't know what she was talking about, yet somehow, I knew what she meant.

"You're welcome," I told her. "And you always will be."

It took me until Monday to call her. I got it into my head that I should stick to school days and I anxiously waited until classes were over. I thought about her all day. I told my friends about her, but it had already gotten around that I had gotten around.

I rode a bike, a dark blue mountain bike that I operated on sidewalks (parking meters should not be sitting on poles that are the same color as the sidewalk in my humble opinion) and made it home to dial her number.

It rang.

No answer.

No machine.

No kidding.

I waited for ten minutes (it could have been ten seconds) and dialed again.

Nada.

I sorted out the day's homework, which is to say that I swatted my backpack from my bed to the floor and sat down amongst all my sweet blacklight posters.

I decided to turn on my radio and wait until the end of one song before I tried her number again. I hoped it would be something nice and short like a Romantics song and knew that if I ended up on the long version of "Money for Nothing" by Dire Straits that it wouldn't count.

It was George Harrison. "I Got My Mind Set On You."

She answered on the second ring and sounded happy to hear from me. We fell into a natural conversation that swept an hour away with criminal swiftness.

Just listening to her voice was enough to make me breathe deeper. She was expressive yet I could see shyness lurking. She was easy to make laugh though and I had never met a girl so naturally funny.

We spent the next week becoming best friends, but she went to her hometown of Forks, Washington to stay with her dad for the Christmas break.

We didn't speak again until 1989.

I had been informed that she would be home on New Year's Day and I called her house after dinner. She had been home for less than an hour and was extremely happy that I had wanted to talk to her so soon.

I admitted that not talking to her had been a new kind of torture to rival that of her tickling. She admitted that she also thought about me, often at night.

I called her every day until Friday, January 13, the date we had chosen for me to go to her house for dinner. I had already told her that I was planning on asking her a very important question on that night and since there was only one big question in all of teendom, she and I danced around the fact that we were falling in love and would officially be boyfriend and girlfriend as soon as I could ask her in person.

I guess I was just old fashioned that way.

I was able to secure a ride from my sister and my dad was going to pick me up.

It was all worked out and all we had to do was wait, and talk. I told her all about the British pop groups Underworld and Wax U.K. and she introduced me to what would become one of my favorite bands of all time, Oingo Boingo. (Maybe you've heard of the film composer Danny Elfman? Well, ((I say in my best Hermione Grainger voice)) he works with Tim Burton quite often and has scored everything from Beetlejuice to Big Fish. He also worked on Batman and, most notably, The Nightmare Before Christmas where he sings all of Jack's songs himself).

Of course, by then, the biggest thing he had done was the song" Weird Science" and "Dead Man's Party". It was enough. I was a fan from the moment she played "Just Another Day".

Friday, January 13, 1989 was not just another day. It almost was though. It snowed that afternoon. It snowed a lot.

School was cancelled half way through the day and I had never felt such defeat in my life. I was heartbroken when my mother confirmed that a trip six miles east to Bella's house was out of the question.

I understood but I was filled with sour venom for the situation.

I called Bella and my quivering lip kept rattling the phone.

She comforted me. She told me that it would be alright and I believed her. I always believed her. I left to sit down to dinner with my family, and even though I no longer had an appetite, I was determined not to bring the mood down just because of some bad luck with the weather.

My sister ended up being my savior. She had really liked Bella and told our mother that I deserved to risk a night drive on the ice to see the woman I loved. She had only been driving for six months, though, and her argument carried no further didn't carry much weight as she went on to explain that it really wasn't so bad at all and had, in fact, started to get better.

This all happened after I had gone back upstairs to call Bella and I didn't know about Alice's intervention until my mother had me in the van and halfway to Bella's house.

As luck would have it Bella's mom, being from Northern Washington, knew how to drive in anything and left the house to eat at the Elks Lodge, but not before stopping at a hamburger joint called Mugsy's to get us colossal burgers, curly fries and shakes so thick they could be mistaken for candle wax, especially with the ridiculously narrow straws that proudly protruded from their brown surfaces like wicks.

Seriously, Mugsy's straws were so thin that they looked up to swizzle sticks.

We sat in a big pink love seat and ate while we watched MTV. Video after video reminded us that we were alone together but the only thing I took advantage of was the chance to look at her while we spoke.

I had never written so much as limerick before I had met Bella but over that Christmas break while she was in Forks. I recited one such poem for her, a fairly mannered thing called "The Mist", (at the time, not having known of the story by the same name written by Stephen King).

I really dig that story by the way. In fact, I just realized that I stole the setting for my forthcoming zombie book from that story. The Mist takes place in a grocery store you see, and so will my tattered tale of the undead walking out of the ocean and invading a sleepy Oregon coast town; "Zombies 101." But I digress...

I recited the earnest albeit pedantic poem to her, declaring that she had pulled me out of darkness and had my entire life at her disposal.

She agreed to be my girlfriend with a warm smile and that most beautiful word. "Yes."

I tell you this - before our milkshakes released their holds on the matchsticks masquerading as straws, or the fries made the paper plates greasy, we knew that we would be married someday.

We told no one of course; they would have called us crazy.

That night passed quickly, and so did the only kiss I gave her. I was more than satisfied with the night's progression, however. I had a girlfriend. The last girlfriend I would ever have.

We saw each other nearly every Friday night after that. Alone in her house while her mom and stepdad went to the Elks Lodge.

My glasses were steamed up more than once when they came home, but they seemed to laugh it off. We were still in the living room (and fully clothed) after all.

We spoke on the phone for a minimum of an hour a night and it did not take long for Bella to find the one person in her school who could actually pass a note to me six miles away.

Tyler. He was a mechanic student, and despite living in Bella's town was granted attendance at my school for afternoon classes in our automotive shop. He charged me a quarter for delivery and assured me that he would be reading everything that we handed him.

I loved Tyler and accepted his terms as Bella had done twenty minutes before. (He had also charged her a quarter).

During the last half of my Junior year of high school, I collected hundreds of notes from Bella. I still have them all and could fill a whole book just with her sweet and sometimes naughty words.

Interestingly enough, the next year, when I was a Senior and Bella was a Junior, Tyler had all of his classes at my school but agreed to drive to Bella's mailbox each day.

For a dollar.

It was still the best investment I have ever made and now she has a box full of notes from me that rivals the one I have from her. They sit next to each other in our bedroom closet. Hers are folded in a myriad of clever and geometrical fashions. Some have numbers or letters on them. Some have flowers or hearts.

Mine are square.

During school Bella would write to me, reacting to the words I had sent her the day before or commenting on her day and would sometimes wait outside her mailbox with a dollar and a return letter. Some were so big that Tyler was forced to institute an extra fee for anything that was too big to fold.

Mostly because it took him so long to read them first.

* * *

><p><strong>NOTES:<strong>

**This episode was originally contributed to Bronzehairedgirl620, who organized a fundraiser for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I was happy to participate and want to thank everyone who donated to the cause.**

**The next episode is entitled "Tilting at Windmills" and will be published in a compilation for a very special project for Mosly A Lurker. The fandom is helping to raise funds for MAL so that she can obtain a service dog. I had the opportunity to meet MAL in person this year when she traveled to my local area to interview with a trainer. Without hesitation, I can tell you that the achievement of this goal would radically change her life.**

**Please take a few moments to visit MAL's personal blog which can explain more about the project. You can find the link on my author's page. Donations will be accepted until November 15th. **

**"Tilting at Windmills" is a story about a dog named Brandy and how she once saved Edward's life.**

**MOG**


	6. Chapter 6: Tilting At Windmills

**Disclaimer: **

**The characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**Their experiences are mine to share.**

* * *

><p><strong>Episode Six:<strong>

My name is Edward Cullen and I am legally blind. It's hard to explain what that means but in mathematical terms; I have about 1/40 the vision of someone with perfect eyesight, or 0.025% if you don't like fractions. Believe me, it looks worse in formulaic terms than it feels in practice.

As I share my stories with you, I will visit places so far in my past that I'll have to ask my parents for help. You'll hear about my first pair of glasses, my first words, and my first steps, (all on the same day). My goal through these episodes is to enlighten and delight and since self worth is the only way most people will ever be rich, I say we might as well live like kings and queens.

I have a great story concerning a pen light and an interesting side effect of my condition that will make you wish David Letterman would re-institute Stupid Human Tricks, but for today I will write about how a Golden Retriever named Brandy saved my life.

**Tilting at Windmills**

My friend Jasper and I were both small framed boys. We preferred music to muscles and spent one whole summer indoors composing the great American symphony. (There were bongo drums involved so I doubt that we achieved our goal but we had fun).

He lived in my neighborhood and we spent nights at each other's houses on a whim. Sometimes, we even camped in his back yard which led into an untouched mossy forest that was dark but pleasant and as big as the rest of the county.

He had a four year old Golden Retriever named Brandy and she was as soft as goose feathers. She was the color of freshly cut redwood and sweet without being slobbery. When I slept over she traded her usual routine to doze near me in my sleeping bag on Jasper's bedroom floor.

Maybe that's where she always slept, maybe I was invading her space. She never acted like it bothered her. She slept with her chin on my leg, and head perfectly positioned under my hand.

I would pat and scratch her head while Jasper and I spoke of 5th grade trivialities and listened to his brother's cassette tapes of The Cure.

When we woke on a particular January morning, we partook in waffles and then decided to trek through the forest in his back yard to an old working windmill. I had never seen it but everyone in Jasper's family knew of the quaint little marvel. Jasper asked permission to take me on the ten mile hike and we were sent out with jackets.

We were also offered a gallon sized bag of trail mix, complete with peanuts, raisins, M&Ms, dried bananas, pretzels and almonds but we were full from the waffles and declined. It was a decision that we regretted only hours later.

Being far enough into the woods to know that you have truly entered another world only takes a few minutes and feels different on every level. The air smells like soil and moss and wood and that's just the beginning. The ground feels different, like walking on a mattress, and filtered sunlight only gets a yellow beam to the leaf strewn floor on rare occasions.

Our eyes adjusted quickly and so did our ears. There was rustling life all around us, curious but well hidden. We stopped at a pond I knew well and looked for brown salamanders with bright orange bellies. We found and they breathed quickly as we handled them.

We never harmed them, they were precious, like catching birds. We let them go in the water and continued further than I had ever gone into Jasper's woods before. (If this was a slash fic, that would have sounded dirty).

We passed by many fallen trees and they had created massive shelters that we joked about using if we got lost.

We really didn't see much wildlife beyond birds and squirrels, but there wasn't enough grass to support dear and the bears were still asleep.

We stopped at particularly grotesque growth of knots and bark and climbed it like broken beasts. It was about noon then and I began to realize that something was wrong. Jasper had a cramped look on his face and admitted that we should have seen the windmill some time ago. Furthermore, there were certain topographical landmarks, like the one we were standing on, that he was certain he had never seen before.

A big valley was visible and he seemed relatively positive that we had somehow gotten to the east of it. The plan was to go back the way we came and look for the point where we lost our track but Jasper spotted a wide logging road that was covered in grey gravel. It ran right back the way we wanted to go so we gratefully followed it.

When it slowly began to curve away from where we wanted to be we decided that being on a road was far better than being in the woods and far more visible.

There were no weeds growing up through the crushed gravel and it looked like a truck would come spinning by at any moment. I remember actually being worried that we would get hit if a driver wasn't paying attention but I also knew that we would hear it first.

At about three o'clock in the afternoon, we saw the Golf Course. It was only a mile away but Jasper could easily see people driving golf carts around on the manicured fairways and the bright greens.

It was our best bet for safety, but the valley between us and the big clubhouse with the warm windows and the multitude of telephones. Worse yet, there was a river running along the valley floor.

So we stayed on the road. It was the smart decision. A big wide road like that was bound to lead somewhere.

* * *

><p>It began to rain shortly after that, a thin mist that coated my glasses like steam. We were soaked in an hour and cold well before then. Still, our spirits were high, it was only a matter of time before we found our way out and we knew it. The next few hours went by quickly and even though we saw twilight threatening to surrender completely to a thick night, we remained optimistic.<p>

I told him at one point that I could hear traffic and Brandy seemed to pick up on the same faint noises. It was a good thing because the wind had picked up and the raindrops grew fatter and meaner. Our cheeks were red with it's abuse.

Brandy was getting tired, we could see it. We were tired as well but she was favoring a front paw, and her tail had stopped wagging.

I still don't know the reason for it, but she would put her wet nose directly in the palms of our hands as we walked for about ten minutes straight before running ahead and sitting in the road.

It was dark enough for even me to see stars when we approached the spot where she was sitting and Jasper took in a shocked breath.

I could see the look of raw horror on his face. It was more than horror actually. It was defeat. Dread to the point of instant deflation.

It was very scary to see him like that. I followed his gaze and saw only the last salute of sunlight on the horizon. It was little more than a glint on a low cloud.

"It's the golf course again," Jasper said. He was shaking his head from side to side like a pendulum.

We didn't know what that type of road was called at the time, or, obviously, that they existed at all, but apparently, there are some old logging roads that completely circled small mountains like an areola. Big cranes were then positioned on them and they drove around lifting cut trees from one side and delivering them to waiting trucks on the other. The trucks were on much smaller roads that had long since been overgrown.

We had spent the entire afternoon walking in one big circle. With only woods, woods and more woods on either side of us, we had no idea what was happening. It wasn't as if the road curved to the left the whole time. In fact, it seemed to go left as much as it did right and even went straight for great long sections.

We both began to look for evidence that the road was just winding back around above or below itself on the mountain because it still had not occurred to us that there was no way on or off it.

Jasper remembered the spot where we emerged onto the road and first saw the golf course and went to look for it. When he found it, he cried.

We both did.

There was no mistaking the spot, it was marked with our muddy footprints, now filled with dark water.

It was that moment when we knew we were in for more than a rough night. He had been raining for six hours, and we had been walking for eleven.

Brandy sat close by but looked west towards the clubhouse. Highway 101 was just visible behind it. I could see yellow lights being chased by red lights even through the rain and the wind carried the high pitched woosh of cars on wet roads to our desperate ears.

It was maddening to be so close but still so dangerously far away.

If we went down in the valley it would mean crossing the river in the dark.

I suggested that if we were going to do it, that we do it while we still had the strength to and he agreed.

We stepped off the road.

* * *

><p>It is at this point in the story where I would like to draw your attention to a scene in the movie "Romancing The Stone" wherein romantic novelist Joan Wilder (Kathleen Turner) and bird trapper and all around scoundrel Jack Dalton, (Michael Douglas) slid down a steep embankment and ended up in a mud puddle so big that it needed it's own boardwalk.<p>

Well, we experienced a very similar ride down the steep hill. It was fun, even at the time.. We laughed all the way down but there was a darkness that clamped down on us the further we slid down the hill.

It must have been three hundred feet, but felt like three thousand.

We even went under a fallen tree, I saw it's inky mass appear in the darkness and roll right over my head. If it had been much lower, we would have collided with it savagely. I was very glad Jasper went first, but that meant that I would just run into him if anything went wrong.

Nothing went wrong, we didn't even end up in a huge mud puddle like in the movie. It was our sole reward for being stupid enough to leave any road. We ended up on the muddy banks of a angry stream that was far to wide to jump and far to fast to cross safely.

It was much bigger than we had suspected.

We stood up and looked for Brandy. She had not come down with us. Jasper called her name and she barked once from the top of the hill. She didn't want to come down.

Smart dog.

Realization claimed Jasper's face. We were not getting back up the hill and if Brandy refused to come down then we would be separated. He called again more earnestly and turned to me with wide eyes and a tight mouth.

"We can't leave her."

We both began calling her, Jasper even tried using an angry tone which brought only whimpers on the wind which had begun to pick up.

We stayed there for another hour trying to get her to come down. It was late by then, well after dinner time. We were both Boy Scouts and were scheduled to attend the Blue and Gold Banquet, (a pot luck dinner that promised at least four different home made macaroni and cheese dishes) that very evening.

We failed to uphold the two word mantra of the organization, Be Prepared, as soon as we left the house that morning, but used our training and devised a good plan to get us both across the river.

We each broke off a tree branch. Jasper used his to test the depth of the water, it was about waist deep and that was about our limit for an attempt. I got to work selecting a larger string branch that could stretch across the river and offer a brace.

I got another branch for him to hold the whole way across too.

Jasper stepped into the fast flow with one hand around the branch I was holding out to him and the other gripping the long branch that was braced by trees on either side ofhte bank. The idea was that I could anchor him as he crossed and then he could anchor me.

It worked but slowly. He was freezing within seconds and began to cry again. It was terrifying but the relief of finally making it safely across was painted on his face when he turned back towards me from the other side.

He was shivering and wanted to stop before I went in so we waited. I hoped that I wouldn't lose my nerve but when he stood up and offered me the branch I grabbed it and jumped half the distance to get a good head start on my journey.

The water was even colder than my worst fears. My feet were numb before they hit the riverbed. I took a few steps and thought I had a real chance of making it but then I slipped.

I cried out as my head went under the surface, but my hand was still clamped around the branch. My head had hit the other branch, knocking it into the river and nearly knocking me out cold. The stars I saw were as bright as a camera flash and when the real world swam back into focus my eyes had to adjust to the dark again.

I knew that letting go was going to mean a quick but lonely death and I fought for footing. The current was too strong for me to bring my scrawny legs forward, I was flapping like a flag in the wind and could do little more than hold on for the time being.

Jasper tried to pull me in but nearly fell down in the process. In the end, it was all he could do just to hold me in place.

I knew that it was only a matter of time before one of got too tired to hold on.

We were both screaming. I remember that clearly. Maybe from fright or anger, but we were both screaming.

Before I even registered the loud splash to my right, Brandy was in the water with me. She swam up and put her weight on my legs, forcing them to the ground. When I stood up, she was at my back, keeping me solid and herding me the rest of the way.

It happened fast. One second, I was looking into the swift black current that would cause my death and the next, I was being prodded up the bank by a dog who then shook with great gusto and peppered us with enough droplets to challenge the rain that was still managing to worm it's way through the trees.

I was I was on my knees in the mud and crying. The weight of the experience was still with me but there was something else.

I lost my glasses.

* * *

><p>We sat with Brandy between us and listened to the swollen stream for a while. It should have been a moment of celebration; we had gotten across and Brandy had saved the day but sometimes losing one's glasses can seem even more devastating than losing one's life.<p>

We still had to climb up the other side of the valley and walk through the woods to the golf course but our only worry was that we would find the clubhouse deserted for the night but we discussed flagging down a car on the highway.

We had to walk along the stream to find a place to climb up and it was nerve racking. We were only inches away from dropping into the icy water again and I couldn't help but notice that Brandy went first, she kept herself down stream of us.

Finally we got away from the water but were still not exactly climbing up. We were just pushing through any gap in the wilderness. It was so thick, that we were both getting scratched painfully on our arms, legs and faces.

It felt like we were working our way into a crown of thorns.

My watched had stopped at 10:18, presumably the moment I went into the river. It was at least two hours after that, past midnight, when we happened along another fallen tree and the dry brush beneath it was a blessing too good to pass up.

We slept in each other's arms, knowing that it was our only way through the night.

I thought I heard people calling out names in the night. "Jasper! Edward! If you can hear us, holler back!" I remember thinking that holler was a weird word to use but I screamed into the wind with no results. I'm not even sure I heard it, Brandy didn't move.

Jasper woke and told me that he dreamt of being found by his father and fed hard boiled eggs. We both had a good laugh, and the clouds still dropping rain on us were far from being backlit by dawn.

I slept more than I thought I would when we first tucked ourselves in but not at first. It was the shivering, violent shivering that possessed my body. If I hadn't lost my glasses already, they would have shaken right off my face.

I was worried that it would keep up both awake but it suddenly stopped. I felt a peace wash over me as my muscles stilled. I even felt warm. For a moment, I thought I was dying, then I wondered if Jasper had peed on me. Either way, I finally slept.

When the overcast morning pried our eyes open, I could only sit up. When I tried to move my legs I found that I could barely feel them.

My hands and arms were getting numb too.

I could move my limbs slowly and raised my hands to my face, I was all white and wrinkly, like E.T. after he spent the night in the rain.

Jasper was horribly concerned at the change in my condition. He got up and had a look around while I watched my limbs move like smoke.

Brandy heard the helicopter first. Her head jerked up and we both followed her gaze. All I saw was the trees but Jasper had climbed up onto the tree and had a pretty good vantage of the area.

He took off his shirt and began waving it. The helicopter approached and circled above him. He had been spotted alright. For a moment the noise was everywhere and the branches shook harder than they had all night.

When it flew away and we were left only with the distant sound of it chopping the air, Jasper yelled down to me that he could see fire trucks driving out onto the golf course. They were coming for us.

He climbed back down and sat with me for a while. It took them hours to reach us and he would check on their progress every once in a while but lost sight of them and could only hope that he hadn't imagined the whole thing.

The parked trucks with their flashers still turning were his proof that they really were on their way.

We heard them coming for almost five minutes before we saw the first gruff but smiling face of a first responder with blankets and stretchers.

They brought the stretchers, expecting that we would both be hypothermic and unable to walk ourselves out. They were half right, the blood in my arms and legs had begun to pool in my torso as an extreme defense mechanism against the cold.

They carried me out on my back and I looked at the white sky while they made the long trip back to the ambulance with me between them.

They carried Jasper in a stretcher as well but they dropped him, twice. He then hopped on the back of a man who took him piggy back until he fell backwards on the frail boy.

He walked the last quarter mile to the ambulance himself.

When he climbed in, he was strapped to the bed opposite of me and we turned our heads so we could speak to each other over the knees of an EMT.

"Where's Brandy?" I asked him.

"My Dad has him," he answered.

I was surprised, "What do you mean?"

"My parents are out there next to the fire trucks, so are yours, they kept them back but Brandy ran over to my Dad."

"Oh." I didn't know what else to say. I wondered how everybody got there so fast but then remembered that it had taken the men a long time to hike in from the trucks and hike back out. More than enough time for our families to be informed and drive out to the near by golf course.

The ride was more bumpy than the walk but it was short, the hospital was only a few miles away. They took me into a room with baby food yellow walls and had me take a bath in a whirlpool.

The also made me drink Hot Chocolate and while I have always enjoyed the beverage, I prefer it not to be served to me scalding hot. I infuriated the staff by insisting that it cool down before I drank any of it.

I didn't see how burning my mouth would help the situation.

My parents came in then, and Jaspers folks stopped by as well. they felt responsible, it was all over their faces.

We were only kept at the hospital for the day and allowed to go home by dinner time.

Well, I was allowed to go home at dinner time, Jasper walked out after a grilled cheese sandwich and some tomato soup.

The novelty wore off by Valentine's day that year and Jasper and I remained friends through Junior High and High School.

I never did see the windmill, but I get the feeling that it would seem insignificant compared to what my eyes were opened to that day.

My life was saved by a friend's dog, a dog who was to terrified to come down on her own until she heard my cries for help.

My life was saved by volunteers and professional rescuers who spend a whole night out looking and got less sleep than we did.

My life was saved by my friend who spooned me, unashamed all through the cold night.

And finally, my life was saved by me, a skinny little bastard who wouldn't let go of the branch his friend held out.

We may be lucky enough to have other people fighting for us, but the only way to succeed is to take it upon ourselves to fight for our own lives. Everyone is worth saving and more importantly, everyone can be saved.

* * *

><p><strong>NOTES:<strong>

**This chapter was originally submitted to a compilation fundraiser assisting mostlyalurker in obtaining a service dog. I'm happy to report that our goal was achieved and I wish to thank those of who you supported the cause.**

**I have already written another episode of this story and look forward to posting it in two weeks.**

**And I will also begin writing a new story in the new year with my wife, RandomCran. It is called EXPOSURE and it will be posted under her FF account. If you want to join in on it from the beginning, please be sure and add her to your Author Alerts.**

**Happy Holiday greetings to you and yours.**

**MOG**


	7. Chapter 7: Nickel's Worth of Free Advice

**Disclaimer: **

**The characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**Their experiences are mine to share.**

* * *

><p><strong>Episode Seven:<strong>

Hello, my name is Edward Cullen and I wear glasses so thick that I can hardly lift my head up sometimes. You wouldn't believe how beautiful Christmas time is though. Every light bleeds into the next and the world is alive with the twinkle of it.

As I share my stories with you, I will divulge deep dark secrets and shamelessly promote past accolades. You will see my highest jumps and my lowest splats and through it I hope to impart a certain amount of wicked wisdom and maintain above all, respect for life and freedom.

I will get to a story about my many experiences driving cars another time (I actually stole Bella's Chevy Sprint once and drove it around the neighborhood) but for now I would like to share with you all the tips and suggestions I have received over the years.

**A Nickel's Worth of Free Advice**

The nice thing about wearing glasses so thick is that nobody mistakes you for someone who can see well. You might not think that this is a real feather in my cap but trust me, sighted people like to toss things - soda cans, cell phones, keys, fruit, DVDs, games, books, remote controls, tools, toys, the cat, iPods, batteries, more keys, gum, pens and pencils (not cool), lighters, silverware, miniature wind chimes, staplers, wrapped tacos, Christmas tree ornaments, flashlights, drink coasters, shoes, oven mitts, still more God damn keys, extension cords, hot pieces of shrimp, marble bear figurines, golf balls, coins, toast, sugar packets, garage door openers, aspirin bottles, jewelry, dice, seriously what is it with the fucking keys already, toothbrushes, CD's, ice, corn dogs, harmonicas and soap.

The oven mitt is the only thing on that list that doesn't hurt. (A sugar packet can fuck you up).

I wore contact lenses for a time when I attended Portland State University and it damn near killed me. That's how I know all this stuff about being blind but not looking blind and I realized that being typecast has its advantages.

The downside to looking like you can't see well enough to catch a bus is the onslaught of questions, comments and advice given by lobby doctors and sidewalk surgeons.

I can't tell you how many times someone suggested that I simply get Lasik eye surgery.

Um...sure, I'll go do that right after I sign up for chemo therapy. (For all the good it would do me).

Don't get me wrong, I am happy to discuss my eyesight, and I have always been thrilled that Bella was never shy about asking questions. However, I have little patience for people who think that my poor eyesight is on display for them to diagnose and discuss as if I am not an expert on the subject.

As I may have mentioned before, I have no pigment in my retina and this makes me near sighted enough to focus on minuscule items, but makes anything more than four feet away look like an Andy Warhol painting.

Bella lets me study her face. She's not uncomfortable with how close I have to get to her. I think she likes it, actually. With my whiskers it must be like having an archeologist dust you with a little brush, but she smiles every time and is usually the one to pull me into a kiss.

She gets me, always has.

Some people don't even get that my eyes and my brain are not connected. I have had several people admit to me later that they thought I was mentally deficient when they first saw me reading a book.

In their defense, it does appear that I am smelling my books rather than reading them. I sing to myself a lot too, maybe that's a factor.

* * *

><p>Okay, a few stories:<p>

While I was in high school and looking at the Oregon Commission for the Blind as a possible scholarship source, I met with the specialist assigned to my area of the state and I kid you not...when he shook my hand he yelled.

"EDWARD, IT'S NICE TO MEET YOU. MY NAME IS WALLY."

I just stared at him. It was my mother, Esme, who spoke first. "He's blind, not deaf dear."

I mean...this dude was FROM the Commission for the BLIND!

I later worked at the Oregon School for the Blind and will have to remember to write an entire episode about my time there. I met some far more competent people and made some lifelong friends, as well as making a difference in some kids' lives by setting an example of character and confidence. (And humility, obviously).

Wally turned out to be an alright guy who helped me get to PSU. He even employed Bella, earning her some extra pocket money for simply reading my text books to me. She had a fun and easy job while auditing six more classes.

By the time she graduated, she should have had two degrees.

* * *

><p>My glasses make my eyes look very small and I have even had a few people mistake this for a birth defect. They assumed that my tiny eyes are the cause of my visual impairment.<p>

Makes perfect sense since we all know that birds can't see for shit.

I may have touched on this as well but I just lower my glasses, revealing my normal, if not strikingly beautiful green eyes. People always act as if I had just performed a fantastical magic trick and usually want to inspect the glasses as if they themselves were as powerful as a wizard's wand.

Those people are usually freaked out by me for the remainder of our interaction.

As if I'm the freaky one.

* * *

><p>Kids ask different questions than adults do. For one thing, they don't care that I'm blind. They get blind; they want to know what's wrong with my nose.<p>

Okay, here's what's wrong with my nose. I am a triplet. My sisters, Alice and Alyssa, came out mere minutes before me but we were all pre-mature. Born at just seven months, we weighed only ten pounds combined. My face had also not fully knitted together and this caused a birth defect called cleft lip and palate.

I was fortunate enough to have a series of surgeries once I gained enough weight. The results gave me a fantastic closure for the mid 1970's technology. I gained the ability to speak normally, but my cartilage is visible when looking up at my nose, which is what kids are forced to do from their unfortunate vantage points.

I know that I gave you a lot of information just to point out how kids don't give a crap what I can or can't see and I fully intend to spend an entire episode talking about all the experiences I've had in hospitals over the years.

Furthermore, I will gladly delve into my memories of my two divine sisters. Alice and Alyssa were spared any birth defects and turned into lovely young women. I will now get back into the stories about my eyesight.

* * *

><p>An interesting side effect of my particular condition, <em>ocular albinism<em>, is that when I put a bright light against my temple it turns my pupils bright pink. If I have two laser pointers, I can look like a glowing eyed werewolf in the woods.

It's pretty cool and it only works on me. I have hidden on many a trail and scared the hell out of many a person.

I can't see very well when I'm doing it, but it's not dangerous as far as I can tell.

Drunken people get a big kick out of my little party trick. They also like wearing my glasses and jumping off chairs. I am quite the carnival if one has consumed six or more beers.

I'm not sure what is exactly happing to make my pupils glow pink, but it must have something to do with the way my eyes process light. Ocular albinism is a condition that is carried by women but only effects men. They call it a sex linked chromosome, like hemophilia.

As a result, my sisters are carriers while my own children had no chance of inheriting the condition. When our older sister, Tanya, had her son she asked the doctor when he would be able to tell if the baby had the condition or not. He informed her that it would take months, possibly up to a year until the boy could demonstrate his mobility.

When she passed this news along to me, I had a simpler solution. "Why don't you just shine a light on the side of his head?"

She did just that and the baby's pupils remained black. Great news. She then reported her discovery to the doctor and he informed her that he had never thought of that as a diagnostic tool.

Muggles.

* * *

><p>I once had a guy feel very badly for me when he found out that I was never going to be able to drive a car, legally. He suggested that I get a car with a windshield that matched my glasses prescription.<p>

Where do I start...?

First, if the prescription doesn't work on my face, it's not going to work anywhere.

Second, if my glasses cost $600 dollars and weigh 5 ounces then a prescription windshield would probably weigh seven hundred pounds and cost about two hundred thousand dollars.

Third, and this is actually the first thing I thought of when he made his suggestion, "What the hell will my poor passengers be going through while I'm driving them around?"

Could you imagine the terrifying psychedelics of that road trip? Not to mention that someone would most likely get a splitting headache after about fifteen minutes in my car, provided we made it that long before I drove us into a garbage truck or a hot dog stand.

When I am riding in a car, I can see the road signs. I just can't read them. I can see the other cars. I just can't gauge their distance and speed very well. I can see the lines on the road, but I can't see the speedometer on the dashboard. I can see some pedestrians but not others.

Sometimes when Bella is driving and waits too long at a stop sign when even I can see that the traffic has cleared, I just wait for the guy on the bike to ride by...yup, there he goes...I would have killed that guy.

* * *

><p>Many people think that I can read braille. This is only half true. I can type braille, but that's because the six levered machines are easy to learn. Reading braille takes certain sensitivity in the fingers, which is not easy to come by.<p>

I only learned to type braille because I worked at the School for the Blind as a drama teacher during the summer sessions. I would type out lines for blind students to deliver and they would become wonderful actors because their faces weren't buried in a script. Blind actors can keep their scripts at their sides and sell their characters. It was cool to learn that.

Unfortunately, blind actors are always falling off the stage.

We had a bunch of wrestling mats in place below the stage, of course and everyone but the youngest and the newly blind had already learned that stillness was their best friend.

Braille is a series of raised dots on paper and I once saw a braille Playboy magazine.

It was disappointing.

No, it did not have a connect–the-dots type of embossment. But it really should have.

* * *

><p>Sometimes my fly is down for hours before I notice, or somebody else does.<p>

* * *

><p>Salad bars used to be cool. I could lean in, see what was there and put things on my plate.<p>

Then restaurants started putting in sneeze guards.

I discovered them the hard way.

If smashing your face into a magical clear boundary sounds bad, then you will no doubt appreciate the hardship of ducking under it only to have your loosened glasses fall into the beets.

Blue cheese and ranch dressing look a lot alike. So now I use Italian.

Restaurants in general are very confusing for me. They're usually dark and there are lots of chairs to trip over. Also, many restrooms seem to have some clever way of displaying which room is for the men and which is for the women. If I have a minute to spare, I will just wait until I see someone enter or leave either room and then I have my answer.

I could go over and try to decipher their clever code, but then I run the risk of getting a door pushed into my face. It's all a dance really.

Finding my way back to the table is never very hard as I have learned to retrace my steps very well over the years. I get to my section and look for the proper number of people at my table or a recognizable piece of clothing. I have never sat at the wrong table, but I have wandered around confused until Bella sees me and calls me over to her.

She should carry a flare gun.

* * *

><p>I had a doctor tell me once that he had helped people with my eyesight be able to drive by crafting glasses with a small binocular scope near the top like uber-strong bifocals. He said that I could use it to see road signs and engine gauges.<p>

Where to start...

First, what about that child in the road I didn't know to look for?

Second, there is no second. This guy was dumb and I told him so. Driving is a science of reaction and reaction requires an element of the unknown.

He assured me that he had several patients who were already driving. I assured him that he was still dumb, and possibly making the whole thing up. I highly doubt that anyone with that getup would pass the driving test even if they had aced the vision test and the written portion of the exam.

Having a pair of binoculars handy does not make up for the fact that most of the visual information drivers get first appears peripherally. If you don't know its coming, how can you look in that direction with your binoculars in time to see it and react to it?

Having said that, mini binoculars imbedded in my glasses would be totally cool, like a steam punk kind of thing.

* * *

><p>I have gotten some good advice over the years too. Things like believing in myself and never using poor eyesight as an excuse. (Unless you grab the wrong girl's ass).<p>

A friend named Julian once told me that as a young man I would not attract many women, but as I got older my attributes would draw them like diet lime cola through a straw. I don't know if he would have been right or not because I struck gold a few years later when I met Bella. She saw me for who I was and loved me for it.

I still had braces for God's sake.

I have rewarded her by growing more handsome with age and obtaining far hipper glasses.

Other good advice was given to me by my high school art teacher. I have always had an appreciation for art, but never an aptitude. It was never eyesight related in my opinion - she argued that it was. She taught me that my disability would steer me in ways that I would never be fully aware of and not to be afraid to accept that.

She made a good point, one I acknowledged at the time and one I continue to believe. It would be naive to think otherwise. Of course one's limitations will affect one's interests and skill sets. For instance, I have poor depth perception which makes me a challenged window washer, a horrible hockey goalie, and a downright dangerous proctologist.

My teacher was patient and encouraging with everyone. I was not the only nervous artist by far. She taught us simple rules and techniques at first and when she explained the concept of drawing a vanishing point and exposed the geometry in nature, something in me clicked.

I was able to produce perfect examples without even using a ruler. Cityscapes were my favorite and the most dramatic examples of the exercise.

I discovered the artist in me that day.

Later in the year, she taught us how to draw Bart Simpson and Gumby.

I discovered the artist in me THAT day.

* * *

><p>Trombone players hate me.<p>

* * *

><p>Quick Q and A time:<p>

**Can you burn ants with your glasses?**

I don't know. I refuse to try but I bet that if I was on the show' Survivor' my tribe would have fire in the first hour.

**Do you accidentally use conditioner instead of shampoo?**

Not anymore.

**Can you see stars?**

Well, that's a yes and a no. I can see stars when they twinkle their brightest, but lose them sometimes. As a result, the sky looks like some kind of celestial popcorn machine.

**Can you go shopping?**

Yes, but it helps if I know the store. I can tell the difference between the produce department and the meat department if that's what you mean. Sure I may try to check out through the pharmacy but I still get the job done.

**How do you pour yourself a glass of water or other clear liquids?**

You can hear the glass get full.

**Can you cook?**

I cook very well, but once stuff is on the stove I can no longer lean over to adjust the dial. It's hard to see when steam stops coming from pancakes and waffles but eggs are easy. Dinner stuff is easy too, even on the grill.

Of course, as a man, grilling is in my damn DNA. (I'll bet even Stevie Wonder can cook a mean burger and toast the buns while he's at it).

**Can you use hammers and screwdrivers and other tools?**

I'm no Jesus, but I can hold my own.

**Do you miss out when girls lift their shirts up?**

I don't want to talk about it.

**How do you shave?**

By touch. It's easy.

**Have you broken your glasses?**

I buried my first pair in the back yard. I broke another pair while cleaning them. I broke still another pair playing racquetball.

**How the fuck do you play racquetball?**

Pretty badly once my glasses are broken.

**Can you see in the dark?**

I can see very well in the dark. My eyes are light sensitive and the less light the better.

**Have you ever been hit by a car?**

Twice. Both times in parking lots.

**Did you get hurt?**

No, thankfully neither incident was a big deal. I have run into bike racks and trailer hitches in parking lots and gotten far more hurt.

**Do you see bugs?**

Not until they run into me.

**Why do dogs hate you so much?**

I talk too loud and I make inadvertent eye contact.

**Do people ever outright laugh at you?**

Frequently.

**What do you do?**

I shrug it off. I have it better than most of them, they just don't know it. Besides, they usually offend someone they're with and that's enough for me.

**Can you play video games and watch TV?**

Yes to both. I have to sit close and I prefer video games that don't look so...real. I prefer games like Mario Kart, bright colors and such.

**Do you know any blind jokes**?

Hell yes! Why don't blind people skydive? Because it scares the shit out of their dogs.

**Do you know any _good_ blind jokes?**

Fuck you.

* * *

><p>I have never met a single person with a birth disability who wasn't perfectly willing to talk about their condition in order to ease and enlighten even strangers. I distinguish birth defects from accidents or injuries because I recognize that newly disabled people can cope differently.<p>

Ignorance truly is bliss sometimes. Although, and this is interesting, since I am aware that my eyesight is deficient my brain has given my eyes a standing order to search for better focus. This is astigmatism. My eyes dance around like drunken fireflies.

It has been said that in the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king. While I agree with that statement and it totally makes me think of the movie Minority Report. I submit another that might serve mankind better:

In the land of the blind, the one eyed man knows the most "one eyed man" jokes.

He would be an outsider you see. We are, after all, social beings and it's not like I'm even making a new point here; The X-Men movies have been making the point that even better mutations are still mutations and subject to ridicule and rejection.

I love my life. I love my Bella. We are happy even though I have to walk to the store if she has already put on her jammy pants and she has to do all the driving while I eat chili cheese Fritos and see how many Linkin Park songs I can get away with playing.

Sure, I pet any piece of clothing that looks like it might be the cat, but that's a small price to pay for the road I was put on.

From the moment I followed two other bawling babies into the world, I have had an exciting and productive life.

And the best part is that we're lucky, it's not even half over yet. That's a good thing because there is still so much for me to see.

* * *

><p><strong>NOTES:<strong>

**Happy New Year to everyone. Thank you for your continued support of my writing in 2011. I looke forward to more of the same in 2012.**

**I wanted to let you know that I am participating as an author in the upcoming Fandom for Juvenile Diabetes fundraiser. I have written an original one shot with a very unique EPOV. It is entitled "House Rules" and you can click on the link on my author's page to see the banner. To learn more about the fundraiser and those partipating in it, please visit fandomajuvdiabetes(dot)blogspot(dot)com.**

**I'm also happy to let you know that the first chapter of EXPOSURE (co-written with my wife, RandomCran) will post on January 21, 2012. It will be posted on her FF page so if you are interested in reading it, be sure and add her to your author alerts.**

**MOG**


	8. Chapter 8: Vegas Was A Blur

**Disclaimer: **

**The characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**The****ir experiences are mine to share.**

* * *

><p><strong>Episode Eight:<strong>

My name is Edward Cullen and I'm legally blind. As long as I keep paying my annual dues I will be able to keep that title. If I ever become illegally blind they could take my cane away and then I'd really be screwed. But seriously folks, I don't need a cane (if I wear my glasses) although I have mistaken laundry for the cat twice already this morning.

As I share my stories with you, I will include all the crazy coincidences and haphazard happenstances that have made my life so unpredictable and through it all I hope to maintain a sense of wise-ass wonder.

I will eventually get to stories about my summers spent at the School for the Blind and how we played basketball with the deaf kids from another state school (spoiler alert, they won) but for now I will gamble with stories about Sin City.

**Vegas Was A Blur**

Las Vegas, Nevada, A.K.A. The Tit Farm. When the opportunity presented itself to visit there, I didn't even want to go. But everyone else in my family planned to spend their vacations there so I went along. I was pretty sure that I would find the city bright, noisy and annoying.

As you can imagine, gambling is one of the hardest things for a blind guy to do, (except for truck driving, lumber jacking, playing Halo, playing dodge ball, cutting hair, performing any kind of surgery, pursuing professional photography, bedazzling denim jackets, getting a good look at jewelry in the display case, studying proctology, hang-gliding, working as a trapeze artist, face-painting, watching TV from the love-seat on the other side of the living room, agate hunting, winning any carnival game, reading sign language, bird watching, finding the remote, appreciating the art of mime, spotting Volkswagen Beetles before anyone else on car trips, reading phone books, playing golf, and checking the arrivals and departures board at the airport) but I found a few games that even I could enjoy.

There were a lot of us on the voyage and that meant a lot of gridlock until we separated into smaller more manageable groups.

The first day was spent getting to know the games in the MGM Grand Casino. I spent the whole first hour trying to wrap my mind around the fact that there were 5005 hotel rooms above me, the most in one hotel in the world at that time. That meant 5005 toilets, bibles, and tiny useless round tables by the window. I remember being really blown away by that number.

The Rain Forrest Cafe was also in the MGM Grand and we ate our first meal in sight of a lioness and several exotic birds. (The birds may have been robots).

Roulette is easy; all you have to do is put your chip on a square and wait for the mean lady take it away.

Blackjack is easy too; all you have to do is sit next to complete buffoons who complain that you are somehow taking _their_ cards. (If I want to hit a 16, I can hit a 16). I've gotten a few fours and fives that resulted in miffed tablemates who never took me up on my offers help them find their missing pills.

Slots are the easiest of them all. You don't even have to understand what's happening to be a winner, but damn if those things don't seem to know right when you walk away. I would hear machines I had been playing going crazy with lights and whistles only moments after I'd given up on them.

I recently discovered that slot machines were invented in part to keep people busy in taverns during prohibition and the different fruits on the spinning wheels represented flavors of gum one would win.

I found a game that really worked for me. It's called 'Let It Ride' and it's a stud poker game, which means no discards. Five cards, that's it and no playing against anybody else either, it's just you versus Lady Luck.

Play starts with each player making three equal bets. I usually play the minimum of three $5 bets and an Eisenhower silver dollar as a bonus. (Silver dollar bonus is optional and not available in all casinos).

You will know a 'Let It Ride' table by the three circles you put your bets in and if they have the silver dollar circle it will light up red. (I like my games to have some production value).

The dealer gives every player three cards, and then lays down two community cards face down.

After seeing their first three cards, each player has the choice to take one of their three bets back or to "let it ride" and leave it out. Then the dealer turns over one of the two community cards. Each player then has the option to pull out another bet or "let it ride."

Finally the second community card is flipped and the players are paid pretty good odds unless they have no hand, in which case their bets are collected.

So, let's play a game together. We put out three $5 chips and a silver dollar. Yikes! We got a Four of Clubs, a Nine of Diamonds and a Jack of Spades, nada. I think we'll take $5 back and save it for another hand.

Then the dealer turns over a Jack of Diamonds. Oh hey, well, now we know that we're breaking even no matter what so let's just let it ride. If the other card is another Jack we'll a get 3 to 1 payout. If it's a Four or a Nine we'll get 2 to 1.

Rats...it's an Ace of Hearts.

The dealer will push our remaining chips back to us, but will keep the silver dollar. They always keep the silver dollar unless you actually win.

So that's 'Let It Ride' but let's play again. I'm feeling lucky.

We put out three $10 chips and our silver dollar. $31 total bet to begin.

We get our three cards dealt to us; a Queen of Clubs, an Eight of Clubs, and a Ten of Clubs.

It's a long shot, but three cards of the same suit might be worth the gamble, let's leave that first chip out shall we?

The dealer turns over a Jack of Hearts.

Crap!

Well, now our chance of a Flush is gone, but we do have a possible Straight if that last card happens to be a Nine. If it is, we're in the money but even if it's another Queen, Jack or Ten, we would break even. (Another push).

What should we do? Do we leave out a $31 bet or cut it to $21?

Let's leave that second chip.

The dealer turns over a Nine of Clubs! (phew, we got out straight).

We were soooooo close to a Straight Flush! But let's look at the table and see what we got...

Pair (10s or better) Push

Two pair 2 to 1

Three of a kind 3 to 1

Straight 5 to 1

Flush 8 to 1

Full house 11 to 1

Four of a kind 50 to 1

Straight flush 200 to 1

Royal flush 1000 to 1

So, we got 5 to 1 on each of our $10 bets. The dealer will put $50 chips on top of each one!

Now let's look at the bonus table for choosing to include the sliver dollar.

Pair (10's or Better) $0

Two Pair $6

Three of a Kind $9

Straight $25

Flush $50

Full House $200

Four of a Kind $400

Straight Flush $2,500

Royal Flush $25,000

Okay, we won another $25. That's a $175 total on a $31 bet. Good job.

As you can see, getting lucky playing this game means getting wealthy. When I visited Vegas I was comfortable sitting down with $40 or $50 bucks and even if I did poorly, I would last for about an hour and drink three Greyhounds. (Vodka and grapefruit juice, perfect for people who don't want to know that they're drunk until they stand up).

I hit a Full House with $10 chips in two of my circles at 4 in the morning on my first night there but believe it or not, that was not my biggest score.

* * *

><p>Bella got me into scrapbooking and I spent the whole time in Sin City collecting napkins, ticket stubs, and drink coasters. I had also collected a few Casino chips which was apparently frowned upon, but honestly I didn't know it at the time. I figured that since they were worth money it was my loss if I wanted to waste cash on a keepsake.<p>

The Casino disagreed. They have colored chips that go with certain tables and games you see, and I was interfering.

I had been playing Roulette at a casino I will leave nameless when I finally got caught. I had thrown about $60 down the tubes and when I left, I put my very last chip into my back pocket. (You have to play three chips minimum anyway so I was done no matter what).

I had moved on to throwing all the extra nickels I had picked up due to sales tax into a video poker machine when I was approached by a security officer who asked me to accompany him back to the Roulette table.

I complied and the lady dealer held out her hand when I approached and demanded the chip.

I knew I was busted but I had one card left to play.

"It's still my money," I informed her. "Can I at least bet it?" Like I said, Roulette normally demanded multiple chip bets to participate but it's not unheard of to take a late comer who throws a $100 bill on Red or Black in a last ditch impulse bet while the wheel was still spinning, so I had a chance that she would let me lose it fair and square.

She huffed but gestured to the table. I put it on 17 Black for no reason other then that it was right in the middle of the board.

I hit it! Swear to God! Payout of 37 to 1.

Now...

My eyesight had fooled me into thinking that I had squirreled away another low denomination chip ($5), but it had in fact been a $50 chip! (Rather expensive for a scrap book memento and I surely would have been pissed to have discovered my mistake years later). It was also far too big a bet for me to knowingly put on a single spin of the wheel, but that's what I did.

The dealer was pissed.

She pushed over $1850 worth of cashable chips (that didn't have the casino logo on them) and told me to find another table to play at.

Both my sisters were with me when it happened because they had seen the security guard approach me,but my dad had also been at that table and pretended like he didn't know me. (Especially when I won).

That second night in Vegas, I took everybody to one of those restaurants at the Excaliber Casino where they joust while you eat big turkey legs brought to you by serving wenches.

It was gross.

* * *

><p>I'm not much of a drinker, but on the third morning of vacation I was introduced to something called a Champagne Breakfast.<p>

Bella and I stuck together mostly, preferring each other's company above all others and always had quiet breakfasts alone at one of the smaller buffets. On that particular morning we found one with enough crisp bacon to climb up and plant a flag in.

There was also a little Mexican fella standing at the end of the train of buffet tables with a big smile and a bigger round silver tray filled with skinny flutes of Champagne. I took one glass to go with my huge plate of cheesy potatoes, fluffy scrambled eggs, and half cord of stacked bacon.

When I went back for more bacon I took another glass, leaving a dollar for the smiley flute steward.

When I went back for some sliced cantaloupe and pineapple, I took another glass and left another dollar.

When I went back just to take two more glasses, the little Mexican fella's smile got even bigger. Now I was going just for the libations.

When I went back for another two, he was holding four, two in each hand between his fingers. He held them up for me and I carried them back to the table with pride.

I may have been getting four at a time but remember that they are little more than three modest sips each, or if you're me, one big gulp.

Bella and I got addicted to the mini cinnamon buns and when I went up to get more of those the little Mexican fella looked disappointed. Of course, I am a terrible interpreter of facial signs unless you are a big yellow smily face so I couldn't be sure but either way, I went right back up to relieve him of another quatro glasses.

Wouldn't you know it, he had prepared a whole tray just for me! Yup, 12 flutes on their very own silver platter and he handed it over with another smile. I handed him $5.

I don't remember very much after that, but Bella tells me that I was quite entertaining and that I made a splendid replica of the Luxor Hotel out of cheese squares, cookies, and slices of kiwi.

* * *

><p>Boys dressed up like girls will always fool me.<p>

* * *

><p>I'm a big roller coaster fan, a massive freak if I'm being honest. So naturally I rode the famous New York, New York coaster on the first day we were in town but went back on the fourth day to give it another go. For those of you who haven't seen it, let me explain, no time, let me sum up, (Princess Bride reference, take a drink).<p>

The New York, New York Casino in Vegas is one building that has been constructed to look like part of the Manhattan skyline. I'm not kidding, it looks like damn near a dozen different buildings and there is a roller coaster that zips right up and around all of them.

The coaster cars are little Taxi Cabs, that shit cracks me up.

It might not surprise you that I can leave my glasses on for most roller coaster rides. A good coaster is not a jarring ride and the faster it goes, the more likely that my glasses will only cling to my face like a booger on a pencil.

I was seriously worried when I first saw that particular ride but it turned out pretty smooth. Although, it really pushed the sideways G's. Frankly, I was more worried that my head was going to pop off.

It's a steel coaster with at least one loop and pretty thrilling all around but I would wager that the folks in the swimming pool below one section of it don't appreciate the occasional shoe or worse yet, shower of vomit that most certainly comes raining down on occasion.

At least they're in a pool right?

After we rode the coaster a few times, we went sight seeing and I'll tell you this, I could have stood in front of the fountain at the Bellagio Hotel for a whole day.

Plus, we found a THREE STORY Virgin Records store in Caeser's Palace.

I couldn't get over how the strip was like a trip around the world. There was a huge black glass pyramid, a gigantic Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, a twenty-four hour circus and the city of Venice, Italy.

My grandfather was an old fashioned guy and wanted to take us to a show that night so we all (girls too) piled in to a huge auditorium to see what was billed as "A blast from the past with one hell of a cast."

There were some great pyrotechnics, amazing sets, and plenty of boobies but we were way in the back of the room and I had to use my monocular to see anything.

A monocular is a very small telescope. It's much smaller than binoculars and, as the name suggests, is only held to one eye.

Well, some security folks (I was going to end up on a first name basis with several such personnel by the end of the vacation) came over to ask if I was holding a small video camera and filming the show. I showed them my monocular and explained that I was legally blind and just using it to see the goodies.

In a surprising move, they immediately escorted me to the front row (alone) and let me tell you, I was so close then that when I held up my monocular I could only see one boob at a time.

Here's the problem though...when I did pan up to the dancer's faces, they were all scowling at me. Like every single one of them, totally glaring at me. I couldn't imagine that I was imagining it either.

A different security guy eventually came over and inspected my monocular again. He said that the girls were convinced that I was filming them and complaining back stage about the pervert in the front row.

I just put it away. It was greedy to use it when I was that close anyway and I got exactly what I deserved.

* * *

><p>Even the airport in Vegas has slot machines, pretty good ones too. We ended our trip with a morning flight and about $400 more than we got there with. I haven't been back since but I have enjoyed a few card games since then.<p>

I like 'Texas Hold 'Em'. It's another stud poker game except that you get two cards for your hand and there are three community cards. Bets are placed as each card is turned over, but in this game you are playing the other players as much as the cards.

As I said, I don't read facial expressions well so one might assume that in a game of bluffs I would be at a disadvantage. Certainly, it would be nice to see all the ticks of my opponents, but no one who relies solely on trickery will ever win more than a few medium sized pots at best.

In the end, you have to have good cards to win.

Do I bluff? Sometimes, but I don't do it when there is a lot of money on the line. It's mostly a way to get opponents to think that I bluff more often than not.

I am frequently underestimated but, that too, can be an advantage. I can also be very intimidating to men who don't understand why I'm not reacting to visual cues but let's face it, poor eyesight isn't hidden for long.

I look so close at my cards that other players can only assume that my glasses aren't for show or that I get off on sniffing cards. (Bicycle decks all the way baby, that shit's like crack).

I once played 'Texas Hold 'Em' with a bunch of cops and although the game didn't take place in Nevada, it's my last story except to observe that all the beautiful paintings on the ceilings of the Venetian might as well have been magazines stapled to the stucco.

The poker game was at my friend's Super Bowl party. As usual, there were two East Coast teams playing so we didn't really care who won.

My buddy and all his buddies were police officers. They were from the city, county and state agencies, but none were in uniform and most of them were even wearing flip flops which is the definition of non threatening male.

Still, when the chips were down they all turned back into investigators. I had bad luck at first and didn't get into the first few betting rounds but that ultimately worked out for me. There were a lot of interpersonal dynamics at play and I learned quickly who the aggressive players were.

Aggression works well in 'Texas Hold 'Em' you see. If you can scare the chips out of your opponent that just makes the game easier.

My skill was not taking the bait.

I did get off a good joke when the "Big Blind" (a bet that requires the larger of two mandatory antes) came my way.

"Hmm, Big Blind, that's my nickname you know, and I didn't get it playing poker either!"

The cops all chuckled and as a student of momentum, it did not surprise me that I won that hand.

As eight players were whittled down to four, the tension was high and the stakes were higher.

We each paid in a hundred bucks and the winner would get $600 while the runner up who played "Head's Up" poker in the end would get $200.

We each started with 25 thousand dollars in chips, so the pots grew quite high. I was seen as someone who could call a bluff but the truth was that by then I was only playing the good hands and won with cards, not guesses.

Then it all went dry.

I got crap after crap and in a game like 'Texas Hold 'Em' you have to pick a hand and make a move or you will wither and die.

I chose a pair of three's, Hearts and Diamonds.

I went all in, hoping to double my chips with the ante pot alone but a couple of the other guys stayed in, and that meant that if I didn't now win that I was out for good.

The Flop card was another three and I thought I would plotz!

I couldn't bet but the others started a side pot in case I didn't take it all.

Not bloody likely! (I'm hearing a Seinfeld conversation with George and Kramer in my head).

Two other guys had higher pairs in their down cards than I did to begin with and one of them got the Queen he needed to wipe me off the board.

I beat five out of seven cops and left the last two to duke it out.

Oh, and I was the only one not drinking. That helped a lot.

* * *

><p>I think life is like a Vegas casino. There are lots of different ways to gamble and lots of different ways to lose but for some reason, everyone seems hopeful and their pockets all jingle with their next big bet.<p>

I bet on people, that they will be good and just and generous and capable. Sometimes I lose my hat but in the case of my family, I hit the jackpot.

I don't really like to gamble with money because it seems like such an empty way to spend it, (when there are so many good DVDs out there waiting to be bought) but I can't deny that there was a rush when I won and the process was quite entertaining either way.

Maybe THAT'S the secret to life, being entertained along the way and paying your ante when it's your turn. Or maybe it's a lesson on knowing when to count your winnings and when to cut your losses. Maybe still, it's about making wise decisions and thoughtful choices.

Knowing the proper metaphor to assign to the enigma that is Las Vegas can be a gamble in and of itself, but I think that we can find life's questions and answers on every street corner and in every single wild carpeted casino.

Now, I know that the secret to life may not be in the city of Las Vegas.

But if it is, I'll bet it's something about tits.

* * *

><p><strong>NOTES:<strong>

**Many thanks to RandomCran and Ishouldn'tbehere for their beta work. It's always as appreciated as much as it is required.**

**I have been writing a story with my wife and we are four chapters in. It's called EXPOSURE and you can find it in my Favorite Stories folder, or you can find RandomCran's profile page through my Favorite Authors folder.**

**Also, we are up for Fic of the Week for EXPOSURE on The Lemonade Stand blog. Please vote today or tomorrow for us because it will mean quite a bit of exposure for us. (No pun intended).**

**Tehlemonadestand(dot)blogspot(dot)com**

**Morgan. **


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